


protect and serve

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Police, Courtroom Drama, DCRB 2020, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Death Threats, Lawyer Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Police Officer Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Police officer Dean Winchester's next assignment seems easy enough: a protection detail on Assistant District Attorney Castiel Novak, who's been receiving death threats in conjunction with the case that he's prosecuting. Dean's assignment is to keep ADA Novak safe, alive, and in one piece so that he can start his trial against Dick Roman, notorious CEO charged with the death of at least eight people.With threats that quickly spin out of control, a missing teenage genius, Dean's attraction to Novak, and Novak's mercurial attitude towards Dean--Dean Winchester's next assignment is anything but easy.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 229
Kudos: 773
Collections: Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. the assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is--my own contribution to this year's Dean/Cas Reverse Bang. Working on this challenge was a ton of hard work, but it was immensely enjoyable. 
> 
> I'd like to give a shoutout to the amazingly talented and kind [destiel-love-forever](https://destiel-love-forever.tumblr.com/), who did the artwork which inspired this. Thanks for cheering me on and just generally being an amazing human being. 
> 
> Enjoy!

~*~*~*~*~*~*

The assignment drops into Dean’s lap on a slow Thursday afternoon.

The summer has reached the boiling point level and even the criminals are taking time off in deference to the heat waves seizing Lawrence. Instead of wilting in the oppressive heat, Dean’s spending his afternoon clearing up some paperwork off of his desk and wondering what he’s going to scrounge up from his fridge for dinner. Even inside the bullpen, it’s the kind of hot that has teeth, sinks beneath your skin until you can’t remember a time when the back of your neck wasn’t damp with sweat. In the corner, the ancient air-conditioner rattles and quakes, making a valiant but ultimately futile effort to keep up with the rising temperatures. In the background, a few rickety fans wheeze and puff, but don’t do anything other than ruffle the humid-damp papers on his desk, while only scraping off the first layer of sweltering heat. Ultimately, it only serves to make Dean acutely aware of the sweat trailing its leisurely way down his spine.

Ten years with the Lawrence Police Department, five with the Fifteenth Precinct, and Dean feels like he’s reached a good point in his career. He’d had to struggle against his father’s legacy as he’d fought his way through the ranks from beat cop to plainclothes detective, but he’s proven himself time and again, until even his harshest critics, those who whispered _nepotism_ the loudest, had to shut up. He’s got a good record, closes more cases than most, and takes all assignments--homicide, narcotics, sting operations--and doesn’t complain.

He might just start though, if he’s expected to linger in this sixth circle of hell for much longer.

Bobby (Lieutenant Singer when any of the brass are around) walks into the bullpen, holding a wilting manilla folder in his hands. His eyes dart around the bullpen, no doubt looking for victims. He lands on the only occupants of the room: Dean, whose pen moves much faster when he has an audience, Jo, who doesn’t bother to look up from organizing witness statements in her latest robbery case, and Benny, whose hunt-and-peck style of typing is painfully audible in the quiet room.

Bobby looks at the three of them for a moment before barking, “Winchester, Lafitte, Harvelle. My office, five minutes.” When their eyes dart to him, he waves the folder enticingly. “Got a case.”

Five minutes later, the four of them are crammed into Bobby’s shoebox of an office. Dean tries to sit apart from everyone, but Jo keeps on shoving her sweaty arm against his sweaty arm, which gross. Whenever Dean tries to shove her away, she sends him a fearsome stink-eye, which serves to remind Dean that Jo usually keeps a butterfly knife hidden somewhere on her person at all times.

“Got this handed down to us,” Bobby says, as he passes out folders. “You remember the case against SucroCorp?”

Dean remembers no such thing, but next to him, Jo and Benny are nodding like little bobbleheads. “It was a big thing in the news last year,” Jo says. Dean feels bad for elbowing her when he realizes that she’s relating the facts of the case for his benefit. “Over the period of a week, five people ate at Biggerson’s and then reported a case of food poisoning. Within three days, all of them were dead. It was later found out that SucroCorp was tampering with the ingredients in the sandwiches. Something about a new additive in their food that was supposed to contribute to weight loss. Or something, they weren’t real forthcoming on the details.”

“Right.” From the glint in Bobby’s eyes, he knows exactly what Jo is doing, but instead of berating Dean for not bothering to keep up with crime that doesn’t directly affect him, he picks up where Jo left off. “The detectives on the case managed to trace the decision back to the CEO of SucroCorp.” He slaps a picture down in front of them.

Dean examines the man in the photo. He’s handsome, in a sinister sort of way. He reminds Dean of a barracuda, with his teeth bared in a smile that doesn’t hold a shred of friendliness. He wears his tailored suit like a threat, like a poison frog flaunting its colors. His eyes are flat, like a shark’s. They give Dean the impression that their owner would gladly watch someone bleed out on the floor, just to see them struggle.

“Richard Roman,” Bobby explains. “CEO of Roman Enterprises, which owns SucroCorp. The evidence suggests that it was his idea to add LV-1THN to the food as well as his decision to begin the cover-up. After a long, drawn-out investigation, he was finally arrested on five counts of second-degree murder, conspiracy, and a whole other laundry list of defrauding the public, etc., etc..”

“Cool. So what’s that got to do with us?”

Bobby fishes through his folder for a moment before he brings out another photograph. Interest piqued, Dean leans forward for a better look.

_Huh_ , is his first thought, followed by _those are really blue eyes_.

“Meet Assistant District Attorney Castiel Novak. He’s the one in charge of Roman’s case, and from all regards, he was doing a bang-up job of it.”

Dean looks at the picture. Castiel Novak’s eyes are an arresting (pun unavoidable) shade of blue, while his mouth, even though it’s pressed in a flat line, hints at a smile. His dark hair looks like he might have tried to fix it earlier in the day, but by the time the picture was taken, any order had long since vanished. An American flag hangs prominently in the background of the photo, off-setting the light blue of Novak’s suit.

“Past tense?” Benny asks, tapping at his chin. “Why?”

Bobby’s mouth twists in a more severe version of its usual frown. “About two weeks ago, Novak’s office started getting letters. They were threatening in nature-- _You need to stop this trial, You’ll be sorry if you continue this prosecution_ \--but nothing really out of the ordinary for a trial that was shaping up to be a media circus. The courthouse police investigated but couldn’t verify a credible threat. The letters were filed away as an active case and everything went back to business as usual.”

Bobby sighs and taps a few keys on his computer. “Then Novak’s assistant started getting voicemails.”

Static fills the office and then a deep, distorted voice starts to speak. _Novak. You need to drop the prosecution or else your brains are going to be splattered across the courthouse steps. You’ve been warned_. A loud beep signals the end of the message. Dean, Jo, and Benny all unconsciously lean forward as the next message starts to play. _Novak. I thought we told you to drop the charges. You’re going to be sorry_. Another beep, and then-- _This was our last warning Novak. Drop the case or else no one’s going to be able to recognize your pretty face. We’re not going to ask again_. The phone call ends with an ominous click.

“Novak’s assistant was understandably freaked out. She contacted police to report the calls. An investigation was opened up, but it wasn’t until she opened these this morning that it got dumped on my desk.”

Bobby puts the last series of pictures in front of them. Dean’s pulse quickens as he flicks through them. It only takes a moment for him to absorb the meanings and implications behind the photographs. When he does, a strange mixture of anticipation and resignation churn in his gut. Benny’s tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and Jo sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, as he brings the stack of glossy photos up to his face for a closer perusal. “How do we get in touch with Novak?”

\---

A.D.A Novak’s office is located in the upper levels of the courthouse. Unlike the dingy walls of the precinct, the walls leading up to Novak’s offices are gleaming. Their steps echo off the tiled floor, which is polished to a mirror-like shine. All around them, people in sharp business suits hustle and bustle, their hands filled with important looking papers printed on thick, creamy cardstock, and official leather briefcases swinging in time with the clacking of their heels.

A tall, stringy looking man with hair too long to be proper for a law office walks up to them. There’s something in his eyes that Dean doesn’t like, some little glint of superiority as he looks up and down at their group. Confronted with the man’s impeccably tailored suit, complete with matching pocket square, Dean feels the hem from his slightly too-short, off the rack slacks more than usual. This shit right here--this is what Dad was afraid of Sam becoming when he gave them the news that he’d gotten into Stanford.

“I’m sorry, do you have a prior appointment?” he asks, his voice cool. One eyebrow raises along with his inflection. “This is a secured area. No admittance without an escort.”

Dean’s reaching into his jacket to pull out his badge, which is an automatic _Get in anywhere for free_ card, but he’s stopped by a cool, clear voice calling down the hallway.

“You can let them through Ion. They have a meeting with Novak’s office.”

The speaker is a pretty brunette woman wearing a light grey pantsuit that’s not as aggressively ironed as most of the others surrounding them. Unlike most of her coworkers, her eyes are warm as she looks at them. She even offers a smile to each of them in turn.

Ion (what the _fuck_ pretentious idiot names their kid _Ion_?) looks like he just smelled something foul, but he nods as they pass. Dean, being who he is, offers a smug, “Be seeing you _Ion_ ,” as a parting salvo. He gets a low growl from Bobby for his troubles, but it’s half-hearted at best. Bobby doesn’t much like smug assholes either.

“Lieutenant Singer?” the woman asks. She’s already started to walk down the halls, but she offers her hand to Bobby to shake. “I’m Hannah Carroll, assistant to A.D.A. Novak. We spoke on the phone.”

Hannah’s pace is quick. Despite her shorter strides, Dean has to work to keep up with her. She leads them through the halls until she comes to a small alcove. The door is marked ‘Suite 918’ and beneath it, a small bronze plaque proclaims ‘Assistant District Attorney Novak’. Hannah opens the door to the suite and ushers them in.

Once inside, the world slows down. The suite is small, yet well-furnished. The dark, polished wood of the walls reflects the light and makes a cozy environment. A small conference table sits in the corner of the room, along with a coffee maker and a small refrigerator. At the other end of the room is a desk which Dean guesses belongs to Hannah. Large, leather bound books line the shelves and there’s a neat row of filing cabinets behind Hannah’s desk. Off on the right hand wall is another door. If Dean were a betting man, then he would guess that behind that door is Novak’s office proper.

In the quiet, Hannah turns to them. Her expression is sharp and attentive as she takes them all in. However, unlike Ion, Dean doesn’t feel belittled by her gaze. There’s kindness and intelligence both in those clear grey eyes. “These are the detectives that will be taking the case?” she asks, her voice carefully neutral.

Bobby nods. “These are Detectives Winchester, Harvelle, and Lafitte. They’re some of my best.” Hannah shakes each of their hands as Bobby introduces them. Dean appreciates the strength of her grip and the firmness of her shake, before she lets his hand go. “They’ll be taking on the case.”

Hannah’s face loses its polite smile. “So you think that there’s enough evidence for a case.”

Bobby’s frown deepens, if that’s possible. “Unfortunately, yes.” His eyes flick to the closed door. “Can you grab Mr. Novak? I think it’s time that he’s informed of what’s been going on.”

Dean waits as Hannah makes her way to the door. She raps on it with two knuckles. “Mr. Novak?” After a short pause, she raps again. “Castiel. I need to speak with you.”

After another moment, the door opens, revealing a man just a few inches shorter than Dean. He doesn’t bother to look up from the stack of papers in his hands. A pair of glasses slips down his nose and his tie hangs loose around his neck, like he got irritated and loosened it halfway through the day. “Hannah, I told you that I didn’t want to be disturbed until at least 3 o’clock.” He sneaks his fingers underneath the thick, black rims of his glasses to rub at his eyes before he tugs at the knot of his tie. “What are we…” It’s then that he looks up at them and Dean is hit with the same punch that he got looking at the man’s photo, except this one is worse. Much worse. Twist of intrigue, curl of hot lust in the pit of his stomach, knowledge that if he saw that face sitting alone at a bar, then hell yeah, he’d be making his way over and saying hello, no hesitation--

Dean takes a deep breath, schools his face, and gets a goddamn grip on himself.

“And who do we have here?” The question is directed to Hannah, but those sharp eyes never leave the four detectives.

Dean can see the gears turning in his head as he looks over each of them in turn. “Castiel, these are detectives from the Fifteenth Precinct. They’re here to talk to you about that problem that we mentioned earlier?” Hannah’s voice turns tense.

Castiel’s face, which had been bordering on vague friendliness, shutters. “Hannah, I thought that we agreed that we weren’t going to discuss that anymore.”

Hannah’s expression turns a remarkable shade of pissy. She opens her mouth to retort, but Bobby beats her to the punch. “Mr. Novak, I think you should sit down. There’s some photos that you ought to see.” When it looks like Novak’s about to argue, Bobby’s voice turns into the whip-crack snap of command. “Sit down son.”

“I mean no disrespect, but I’ve made my wishes clear. This isn’t the first time that I’ve gotten threats from case work. Honestly, it’s how I know I’m doing a good job. The courthouse police have investigated and found no real threat. So, if that’s all you’ve come to talk about, I’m sorry for your wasted trip, but my mind is made up.”

Bobby slaps the papers down on the desk. “We ain’t the courthouse police. We’ve investigated and we’ve found enough evidence to feel that there is a real and credible threat. Now, I appreciate your chutzpah, but it’s about time that you looked at the facts.” He flips the folder open.

Dean’s stomach clenches. It’s his second time looking at the photos, and it’s still not an easy perusal. Novak’s eyes flick down to the photos. Dean watches his face carefully. He sees the moment when recognition settles on his features.

“You knew about the letters and the messages. But these pictures were sent this morning. We intercepted them, which is why you haven’t heard anything about them yet.”

Novak pushes his glasses onto his forehead. He picks the pictures up, and Dean has to admire how steady his hands are. “These are…” He looks at Bobby and for the first time, looks uncertain.

Dean watches Novak flip through the pictures. “That’s...that’s me on my morning run,” Novak murmurs. “That’s my house…” His face blanches. “That’s my brother’s cafe.” He looks towards Hannah, something unreadable in his eyes. “I took Hannah there the other morning for brunch.”

Dean knows the picture. In it, Novak and Hannah are sitting outside. The picture caught Hannah mid-laugh as she reached out towards a short, sandy-haired man. A smile is plastered across his face, and even Novak has an indulgent smile darting around the corners of his mouth.

“And this…” Novak swallows and looks up at them. “This is from this morning.”

In the picture, Novak is stepping out of his car, just outside the courthouse. Dean recognizes the tie that he’s wearing. It’s the same one knotted loosely around his neck.

“These pictures prove that you have a fairly dedicated stalker, which would be reason enough to put you under police protection. But worse than that....” Bobby’s head jerks to Dean.

“These are distancing shots,” Dean says. Novak’s eyes flick to him in a swift, assessing slice. “It’s what snipers and long-distance killers do in order to gauge a kill shot.”

Dean’s looking directly at Novak, so he see the exact moment when the color fades from Novak’s face. “So these…” he looks down at the pictures. His fingers rest on the photo of Hannah and man Dean will assume is his brother.

“Someone’s trying to intimidate you and send a message at the same time. By sending you these pictures, they’re saying that they could take you out whenever they wanted.”

Dean says the words as gently as he can while not softening the blow. Castiel Novak has been living in a fantasy world for the past few weeks and as a result, he’s almost gotten himself killed.

“Ok. Ok.” Novak taps the photo again. He glances over at Hannah, who nods shortly. The two of them seem to have a brief conversation consisting of nothing but raised eyebrows and pursed lips. At the end of it, Novak’s shoulders slump. He looks older then, more exhausted.

“All right. So what do we do next?”

\---

Bobby already had the basics of the protection detail worked out before they made the trip downtown.

“Detective Winchester will take point on the detail. He’ll be reporting any suspicious activity back to Sergeant Jody Mills. She’ll be in charge of running your investigation and finding out exactly who’s behind these threats.”

“It’s vitally important to keep this as secret as possible.” Novak runs his fingers through his hair. “It took everything we had to get this far with witnesses, evidence, jurors, appeals and delays. If word gets out that this,” Novak waves his hand towards the photos with an expression of disdain, “is happening, Roman’s lawyers will move for a mistrial. If that happens...I don’t think I can get everything lined up again.” His face sets with determination. “This case needs to go to trial. It has to.”

“Yes, but you also need to be alive to make that happen,” Hannah cautions. She lays a gentle hand on Novak’s arm. “You’re more important than any case.”

Novak doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing. His eyes warm as he looks at Hannah and he lays a careful hand over hers. When he squeezes, Dean feels suddenly, absurdly, uncomfortable. His cheeks heat and he looks up at the ceiling. He spares a second for the absurd wish that the floor would open up and take him away from this scene that he’s almost certain he’s not supposed to witness.

Bobby saves them all by clearing his throat. “The main three detectives I’ve got assigned to you are Detectives Winchester, Harvelle, and Lafitte. They’ll rotate shifts, eight hours apiece, so you’ll have someone with you at all times.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary--” Novak begins, but a gruff cough from Bobby cuts him off.

“Son, they know where you live, where you work, and where you like to spend your free time. I can’t think of a scenario where you don’t need constant protection.” Novak looks like he wants to say something else, but Bobby’s glower can apparently even silence pushy A.D.A.’s. Who knew.

“Detective Fitzgerald will be working as a fourth, providing backup to the primary three.” Dean inwardly winces. Garth is a good detective, one of the best in fact, but he’s just...chipper.

“For the moment, I don’t think that there’s any need to move you to a hotel. You’ll stay at your house, with round the clock protection, unless we feel that location’s become compromised. We will of course, need access to your house in order to search it and add surveillance capabilities”

Novak tilts his head. “Search my house? What are you looking for?”

Jo steps up. “Bugs, cameras, unsecured access points. We want to make sure that we’re the only ones with a way in and out of your house. Plus, it would be nice to know if anyone else has eyes on you.”

Novak just barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “So I’ll be under lock and key and constant surveillance the whole time? Like a prisoner?”

“A very well-guarded one,” Dean can’t help but say.

A muscle twitches near the bolt of Novak’s jaw. Dean can’t help but notice that it’s an awfully nice jaw. Sharp enough to cut glass and the stubble makes him yearn to turn his lips raw against it.

Perhaps sensing the impending explosion, Bobby claps his hands. “All right! Harvelle, Winchester, head over to the house; you’ll meet Fitzgerald and Bradbury there. Lafitte, you’re on duty.”

“I’ll be back later to pick you up. Then we can go home,” Dean needles, flashing Novak a jaunty grin. It’s met with a steely glare from Novak that could manage to freeze lava. Far from cooling Dean’s impulses, that glare only serves to light a fire. Turns out that Novak isn’t a pushover. No, he’s the kind of person that Dean loves picking at, the type of cool that hides a molten core, and Dean loves digging his nails under those exteriors and tugging until he manages to reveal the truth underneath.

When he walks out of the meeting, there’s just the tiniest hint of a spring in Dean’s step.

~*~*~*~*~*


	2. the case

~*~*~*~*~*

Before he left, Dean had a look over the schedule that Bobby worked up. It’s painfully simple. Benny is on duty from 8 am until 4 pm, when Dean takes over. His shift lasts from 4pm until midnight, at which point, Jo shows up. Jo takes over the graveyard shift, from midnight until 8 am, and then it’s time to recycle Benny. It’s a schedule that allows them enough time to get some sleep as well chase down the occasional lead on Novak’s case. In addition to the three of them, Garth is attached as a floater to the case, providing backup on public appearances like court cases, as well as subbing in for the main detectives to allow them the occasional day off. 

They took two squad cars to the courthouse. Dean and Jo pair up and take one of the cars to Novak’s house. The drive is made in relative silence. Dean’s too busy going over the practicalities of the assignment, and Jo is caught up in her own thoughts. When she’s ready, she’ll share them with him. Until then, they’re in their own, separate worlds. 

By the time that they pull into Novak’s driveway, Charlie’s bright yellow hatchback is already waiting for them. Jo pulls up beside Charlie and parks, while Dean takes in the exterior of the house. It's a standard suburban domicile--single story ranch with a neat little porch. A potted plant that looks like it’s seen better days sits by the door, along with two wicker chairs that were never intended to see a human ass. That helps Dean form an instant opinion of Castiel Novak--someone who buys for the aesthetic purpose, someone who cares more about show than substance. 

The house has two entrances--the front door that Dean steps through, along with the side door at the kitchen. Both have deadbolts, which is good news, however both have windows which could easily be broken, which is bad news. Dean ventures into the house as Charlie starts to set up her equipment. “I figure that I’ll wire up the kitchen, living room, hallways, and den,” she tells him as she starts to unpack a series of official looking boxes. “I’ll leave the bedrooms and bathrooms free. For privacy,” she says, after a short, dramatic pause. In case Dean missed the implication, she wiggles her eyebrows. 

“For Christ’s sake Charlie,” he moans as he peeks into the guest bedroom. It’s comfortingly bland, as all guest bedrooms are--a single double bed sits in the middle of the room with boxes piled around it. Furniture that was considered lesser is placed in this room, along with what appears to be a scary number of books. 

“What?” she asks, dragging a chair into the hallway so that she can stand on it to affix a camera to the hall light. “Even I noticed that he’s dreamy and I’m batting for another team entirely. You can’t tell me that you didn’t notice either.” 

Dean doesn’t answer her, which is enough for Charlie. “It’s a job,” Dean reminds her. Even though he’s never been on a protective detail before, he’s pretty sure that _Not fucking the protectee_ is right up there in the cardinal rules, probably just behind _Don’t let your protectee get shot_. 

Charlie shrugs. “Nothing says you can’t mix business and pleasure,” she comments lightly, ignoring Dean’s _Nothing except my boss and the ethics committee and common decency_. “Look, you’re a cop, he’s a D.A...you guys have a lot in common.” 

Yeah, they have a lot in common, as in they both work on the same side of the law. But while Dean’s out in the streets, rummaging through dumpsters and sprinting after addicts and getting kicked and punched, and on a few memorable occasions, spat on, Castiel Novak is sitting in his office with its 24/7 janitorial staff, tossing his tie over his shoulder as he digs into a leisurely lunch. Castiel Novak has an assistant to help him file papers and answer his phone and remind him of important appointments. Dean Winchester works 16 hour days and at the end of them, he’s still filling out his own paperwork. 

So yeah, they’re similar in the way that, since they both live in water, an orca and a minnow are similar. 

“You close yourself off to every opportunity and pretty soon you’ll be old and sad and alone and no one’s going to be there to wipe your butt,” Charlie comments as she jumps off the chair. 

“That’s going to be Jo’s job,” Dean says just as the woman in question enters the room. “I figure that’s right in her comfort zone.” 

“No idea what you’re talking about, but I know that I disagree.” Jo gives him one hell of a hairy eyeball, which might work on someone else, but Dean’s known Jo since she was in high school. She’s going to have to pull out her medium sized knife, at minimum, if she wants to frighten him. “Looks like we’ve got the whole place locked down. He already had a security fence in the backyard, I just locked the gate and reinforced it. Shouldn’t be anyone coming from that angle.” She leans against the wall and peers at the pictures hanging along the hallway. Some of them are landscapes, some of them feature Novak’s face, along with the man that Dean already identified as his brother. 

Novak’s smile is wide and gummy in these pictures, and his eyes are honest to god sparkling. Looking at the pictures makes something uncomfortable and squiggly lurch in Dean’s stomach. It’s annoying because he doesn’t want any sort of feelings when it comes to his job. It’s disorienting, because Dean thought, that after twenty-nine years on this earth, he’d managed to put a name to all of his feelings, but this one appears brand new. 

“He’s cute,” Jo comments, but Dean doesn’t miss the way that her eyes slide to him. 

“Yeah, fuck off Harvelle.” An alarm dings softly on his phone. “And that’s my cue. Babysitting starts in thirty minutes.” He glances at Charlie. “You’ll be done and cleared out by the time that I’m back? Set everything up in the guest bedroom?”

Charlie flashes a Vulcan salute at him. “Never fear, O Brave Commander. It shall be done to even your rigorous standards.” 

“Yeah, just get it done,” Dean mutters, jingling the keys in his hand as he leaves. 

\---

He’ll never enjoy driving a car other than the Impala. But even he can admit that there’s security to be found in driving a vehicle whose windows are made of bulletproof glass and includes bullet-proof vests and a small arsenal in the back. He appreciates it even more now that he’s on protective detail. It would suck to have Baby’s back window shot out. 

For the second time that day, Dean takes the elevator up to the fourth floor and walks the halls to Novak’s office. He’d thought, since it was closing on four, that maybe the chaos would have settled, but these people are still moving and churning with the same frenzy that they were several hours earlier. He pauses to give a small waggle of his fingers to Ion, just to watch how his face darkens, before he sets off towards Novak’s office. 

Dean dodges a woman with creases in her pantsuit sharp enough to leave papercuts, and opens the door to Suite 918. Inside the conferencing area, Benny sits at the small table, surrounded by a pile of papers. Hannah is at her desk, her gaze flitting between three papers and her computer. She’s so deep in her thoughts that she doesn’t even bother to look up as the door opens. Thank god they’re the ones doing the protecting. With Hannah as security, the entire 101st Airborne could mount an attack right underneath her nose.

“Quitting time already?” Benny asks, stifling a yawn. He gestures around at the office. Sunbeams lance in through the window and dust motes dance within them. “You can see the excitement that we’ve been under here.” 

“Hey, don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. Excitement on this detail means bad shit.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Benny stands, cracking his neck. “I’m going to head home, get a few hours sleep. Call Jody. She wants to talk to you.” 

Dean agrees and with that, his first shift with Novak begins. 

It’s easy enough work. First thing he does is stick his head into Novak’s office to let him know that he’s outside. Novak doesn’t look up from the stack of papers that his head is buried in, though he does wave a distracted hand in Dean’s direction. There’s nothing inherently offensive in the gesture. Bobby’s done the same and worse to him when Dean interrupted him in the middle of reading. Still, there’s a sting to his pride and Dean nurses it all the way as he slinks back to his table. By the time that he makes it there, the sting has morphed into a full-fledged chip on his shoulder, one which Dean unconsciously decides to carry around with him for at least the next few hours. 

The shadows lengthen on the walls. Below, on the streets of downtown Lawrence, Dean hears the sounds of the evening commute. The bustle outside the halls dwindles and the shadows rushing by the door decrease. Still, he waits in vain for Novak to emerge from his inner sanctum. When the clock ticks over to seven, Hannah looks up at him. “I’m about to order us food from the cafe. Can I get you anything?” 

Dean coughs, flinching as the tomb-like silence is broken. “Um, yeah, I guess. Get me a burger or something.” 

Hannah smiles as she starts to punch in the order on his phone. “I’ll try and find something for you. This cafe specializes mostly in salads, but I’m sure that I can find you some sort of sandwich.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, burying his head in his hands. Not only is he trapped in this office, stuck in a chair that’s slowly turning his ass numb, but his rolling stomach only has the prospect of rabbit food to look forward to. 

He spends the empty minutes waiting for dinner on a call to Jody. Sergeant Jody Mills is one of the best cops that Dean’s ever had the privilege of working with and she’s also one of the best people he’s ever had the pleasure to know. It’s with genuine warmth that he greets her on the phone. “So what have you heard about our Assistant District Attorney?” he asks, propping his feet up on the table. 

Jody sighs. In the background, Dean hears papers shuffling. “I’ve been working on a list of Dick Roman’s known thugs for most of the afternoon, and one name keeps popping up. Guy named Edgar. No last name, least not one that I can find. From what I can tell, he’s the one who does most of Roman’s dirty work, and he’s gone conveniently missing for the past week. Never reported in to his day job and when I sent a black and white by his apartment, his truck was gone. Officers said it looked like no one had been in the house for a few days; mail was in the mailbox and grass was starting to get out of control.” 

“Shit,” is all Dean can come up with, an eloquent summarization of the situation. 

“Yeah,” Jody agrees. Judging from her tone, she’s no more thrilled with this than Dean. “Look, I’ve put out an APB on his truck, distributed his photo around to every gun shop and dealer in town, and I’ve got eyes on his home and his work. Not that I think it’s likely that he’s going to show back up there, especially if he thinks that we’re watching him, but…” She trails off. “I’m texting you pictures of him so that you can distribute them to your team.” 

Dean thinks that she’s done, but Jody starts again, haltingly. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve kept up with this case, but one of the people that died from LV-1THN was a kid. Eight years old. His parents had taken him to Biggerson’s because he’d just gotten all A’s on his report card.” 

Jody’s breath is ragged on the other end of the line. Jody doesn’t talk much about her life before Lawrence, back when she was a sheriff in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Dean knows that she used to have a family, husband and a son. He doesn’t know what happened to them; only Bobby knows that, and what Bobby knows he isn’t sharing. All Dean knows is that, whatever happened, it was bad enough to send Jody Mills running from Sioux Falls to Lawrence without ever looking back. 

Some cases hit harder on certain officers than others. Clearly, this case hit hard for Jody. 

“Novak was the first one to connect the dots on this one, at least enough to build a solid case around it. He did all the legwork, tracked down witnesses, whistleblowers, people who wanted to talk but were too afraid to talk or didn’t know who they could talk to.” Jody takes a deep breath, pausing in her litany of Novak’s virtues, before she speaks, her normally even voice gone rough with the urgency of her statement. “Dick Roman is a bad guy. He’s done a lot of awful things and if Novak doesn’t win this case, he’ll do more.” Dean hears the click of Jody’s swallow, the small pause as she gathers herself. “Novak’s good people Dean. Make sure that he stays safe.” 

“Yeah.” The weight of Castiel Novak’s life settles heavily on Dean’s shoulders. “Yeah, absolutely.” 

“Anyway, I’ll fax you those files,” Jody says briskly, moment over, back to business as usual. 

“Send them to Novak’s office. I’m going to be here until the world ends apparently. No idea when this guy goes home.” 

“Yeah, and how many eighteen hour days do you usually tend to work? Give the guy a break, putting murderers away means long hours, especially when the murderers have the kind of representation that Dick Roman has.” 

“He gets his food delivered from a _salad_ restaurant. They don’t even sell burgers. Or meat. Or anything that resembles actual food,” Dean complains. He hears Jody’s laugh through the line, which was his real purpose in complaining, and then he repeats Hannah’s recitation of the fax number, Jody echoing him as her pen scratches across the paper. 

Not five minutes after he says his goodbyes to Jody, the fax machine in the corner of the office dings. Dean walks up to get the papers and flips through them on the way back to the table. He’s just made it through the first page when a knock sounds at the door. Jumpy, his hand jerks to his gun before he forces himself to relax. 

He opens the door to find Ion’s dour face on the other side. “Your food,” he says, shoving a bag towards Dean’s chest. A... _scent_ wafts towards Dean from the bag and he has a hard time figuring which turns his stomach more--the stench or Ion’s attempt at a polite smile. It looks akin to what he imagines a crocodile with indigestion would look like. 

“You angling for a tip or something?” Dean asks. Ion’s smile turns a little more twisted at the edges before he whirls on his heel and stomps down towards wherever he lurks when he’s not delivering horrible, overpriced food. 

“Be nice to Ion,” Hannah chides, though there’s little heat in her tone. “He helps the rest of us. He puts together briefs, fetches supplies...He basically does all the grunt work for the D.A. 's office. He’s even picked up Castiel’s dry-cleaning before and delivered it to his house.” 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a good little gofer,” Dean mumbles. He passes the bag to Hannah. The sooner he can get this crap away from him, the better. 

Exhibiting none of the signs of disgust that a normal person would, Hannah digs through the bag, setting the different meals out on the table. “You’re in luck,” she says, with no hint of irony. “They had a tuna salad sandwich. All organic.” She hands him a package, along with a pitifully small bag of, yup, one hundred percent certified organic kettle cooked potato chips. An overpriced, sweating bottle of water tops off one of the worst meals that Dean’s had the misfortune of seeing. 

Hannah knocks on the door to Novak’s office before she swings it open. “Castiel. Dinner’s here.” 

Novak’s voice comes from the thin crack in the door. “Thank you Hannah. I’ll get it in a second.” 

“I don’t think so.” Hannah’s voice layers over Novak’s surprised sputters. “You’re going to come out and eat with Detective Winchester and I like a real human. No, no,” she says, over the increasingly loud protests, “if you want your dinner then you’re going to have to join us.” 

It takes a few moments but eventually Novak emerges from his office. He’s more rumpled than he was this morning. All the sharpness has gone from his suit, leaving him less polished, more human, and maybe a little more likeable. Somewhere along the way he’s lost the suit jacket, leaving him in just a button down and tie. His hair looks like he’s been running his fingers through it. “Detective Winchester,” he greets. He even attempts a smile. “I hope that your day’s going well.” 

“Can’t complain,” Dean says. The smell of tuna salad hits him full force as he unwraps his sandwich and he fights the urge to gag. 

Novak settles himself down at the table and pulls a salad closer to him. He tosses his tie over his shoulder and picks at the lettuce. “Any progress?” Those sharp blue eyes remain focused on Dean, even as he chews. 

Hannah nibbles at her wrap, silent. Dean forces a swallow of his sandwich before he thumbs through his phone. He barely glances at the face before he holds the phone out towards Novak. “Recognize this guy from anywhere?” 

Novak takes the phone from him. He only looks at it for a second before his gaze darkens. “Edgar,” he says simply. “He’s involved in this?” 

Dean’s pulse quickens. “You know him? You’ve seen him around?” Could it really be this easy?

Novak hands the phone back, his mouth still twisted in dislike. “Hardly. I’ve spent months familiarizing myself with all of Roman’s known associates. Edgar’s name has come up. Several times.” 

Dean looks back at his phone screen. Edgar stares at the camera underneath thick, dark eyebrows. His mouth is curved in a permanent frown. His olive skin stands out against the white background of the mugshot photo. “Well, we think that he’s got his hands involved in this too. He hasn’t shown up to his job for the past week and when we sent a black and white by his house, they said that it looked like he hadn’t been around in a while.” 

If Novak’s disturbed by this fact, he doesn’t show it. He chews in silence for a few moments before he dabs at the corner of his mouth. Dean watches his motions until he realizes that what he’s doing could be classified as staring. Then he finds something else to occupy his time in a hurry. 

Novak finishes off his salad with large bites that somehow manage to look civilized and not uncouth. He dabs at his face, already caught in motion back towards his office. “I still need to compare some witness statements and prepare opening remarks. Hannah, have you seen--”

“You need to go home and get some sleep,” Hannah interrupts. From the tone of her voice, this is a common argument. 

“After I finish,” Novak insists. He cracks his knuckles. “That hideous lawyer of Roman’s is trying to file for a continuance. Something about how the police didn’t have the right kind of search warrant. I swear that man can find a loophole better than any twenty people I know.” 

“Go home,” Hannah insists, a cord of steel in her voice. 

For a moment Novak looks like he’s going to argue, but then he deflates. “Fine.” He finishes off the last bits of his salad, before standing up. “I’m just going to take a few things home.” He glances over at Dean, not so much out of a sense of concern, more just crossing things off a list. “Detective Winchester, I assume that I’ll see you later?” 

“Not so much.” Dean stands, shaking out the stiffness in his limbs. “Perks of a protective detail. You’ve got your own chauffeur.” 

Novak laughs, clear disbelief in the sound. “I’ll be driving myself, but thank you for your concern.” 

Dean smiles as well, more threat than congeniality. He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t expecting Novak to start pushing back at some point. Shame that it had to be this point. “Whoever these people are that want to kill you, you think that they haven’t mapped your commute? You think that they don’t know every long red light on your way home?” 

Novak bares his own teeth in an insincere smile. “I’ll drive fast.” He cuts Dean off when he sees him start to speak. “No. I think that I’ve been more than obliging. I’ve let you set up in my office, I’ve let you commandeer a room in my house, I’ve agreed to be followed at all hours of the day, but you’re going to allow me this. You’re going to follow me home and I’m going to roll the window down and feel the breeze in my hair and wherever else I want.”

As he’s spoken, Novak’s leaned in closer and closer until his face is just a few inches away from Dean’s face. A shiver works its way down Dean’s spine as he takes in every detail of that face--the flicker of his eyes, the dark stubble sweeping across his cheeks, the cleft in his chin, and the way that the tip of Novak’s tongue darts out to dab against his lower lip. 

Too dangerous. Novak is pure fucking danger and Dean needs to remember that. With difficulty, he pulls away. “Sure,” he agrees. He nods amicably. “Go for it.” 

Novak almost takes him up on the offer. Dean catches the swift twitch of his body before Novak forces himself into stillness. His eyes narrow in suspicion and Dean can practically see the gears of his mind whirling. “That was too easy.” 

“No, go for it.” Dean spreads his hands in surrender. “I won’t stop you. You can get in your car and drive into the sunset.” 

Novak’s eyes dart to the door. The desire for escape is clear. He even takes half a step towards the door before he stops. He turns back to face Dean, frustration clear in his posture and expression. “There’s no way that you’re letting me drive home, so what the hell are we even doing?”

“Nothing.” Dean really does grin now, genuine mirth in his smile. “It’s just going to be hard to drive without your spark plugs.” He dips his hands into his pockets, just to feel the metallic jangle of them. “Or your steering wheel. Or your transmission.” Jo’s babysitting those particular parts right now; they really weren’t taking any chances with Novak slipping out under their noses. 

“If you ask me, we kind of did you a favor. Your car is...not good.” It’s an understatement. Novak’s Continental is hideous. 

Dean can see the eruption bubbling just beneath Novak’s cool exterior. He watches the jaw clench, the curl in his lips, the way that his eyes harden. “Fine,” Novak spits out. He storms into his office and returns a moment later, coat and jacket tossed over his arm. A briefcase is clutched in his hand and Novak swings it around like a weapon. “Fine.” 

He starts walking towards the door. “If you’re going to drive me home then you’d better hurry up Detective,” Novak calls. He opens the door with more force than is necessarily required. “Otherwise I’m just going to start walking home and who knows what would happen then?”

Dean gapes after him for a moment. He looks to Hannah, who just shrugs and offers a rueful smile. “You get used to him,” she offers, just before Dean snatches up his papers and starts running after Novak. 

~*~*~*~*~*


	3. ada novak

~*~*~*~*~*

On the drive home, Novak is quiet, stewing in the backseat. He stares out the window, index finger tapping at his chin. Every so often, just to switch things up, he’ll sigh, a large drawn out breath that explodes from the diaphragm. The few times that their eyes meet in the rearview, he quickly jerks his gaze away. If Dean were naive, he would say that Novak’s feeling guilty about his display of temper, but it’s more likely that he’s just trying to foment another rebellion. 

“Sorry about the crack on your car,” Dean offers. Novak’s eyes dart to him but he doesn’t lose the moue of displeasure. “But just saying, it could use some maintenance. It’s a pretty crappy excuse for a Continental.” 

That gains him a fierce look in the rearview mirror. “You think it’s crappy?” Amazingly, there’s a thin thread of hurt in Novak’s voice. 

“Well, it needs some work.” Dean thinks, then amends his original statement. “A lot of work. Most everything under the hood needs to be finetuned and some parts need to be replaced altogether.” 

Novak stares him down in the rearview mirror, unblinking. “I haven’t had a lot of time to spend on my car lately.” His gaze shifts to the back window and that’s where it stays for the remainder of the drive.   
Dean pulls into Novak’s driveway and quickly lays out the rest of their ground rules before the man can burst out of the car and scamper into the house. “Every time we enter a room or a new location, I’m the first one in. You don’t enter a room until it’s been cleared by me first. Anytime that we’re out in public, my hands need to be free; I can’t carry anything for you.” 

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to be my valet,” Novak replies. There’s a twist in his voice that could hint at wry humor if his face wasn’t so severe. 

“If anything else comes up then I guess that we’ll play it by ear.” Dean folds himself out of the car and walks around to open Novak’s door. His shoulder holster thuds against his side as he peers around the neighborhood. The houses around him are quiet, sedate. They look peaceful. The shrubs are pruned to perfection. 

Any one of them could hide a killer. 

Dean steps in close behind Novak as he unlocks the door, blocking the lawyer from the street view. The space between his shoulder blades itches, like it’s preparing itself for a bullet. The sound of the deadbolt sliding open is a sweet relief. 

“Behind me,” Dean murmurs, sliding around Novak’s body. He reaches into the room and flips the switch. The kitchen light blazes to life, but Dean quickly averts his gaze to avoid loss of sight. 

He makes his way through the house, one hand poised in his jacket pocket. He’s not expecting there to be anyone in the house; he knows for a fact that Jo and Charlie cleared out about an hour ago, but it’s when you never expect something to happen that something, inevitably, happens. 

His quick sweep reveals nothing other than what he was expecting to find. Dean clears the house and he pretends not to notice Novak’s shoulders dropping with a sudden release of tension. “All right,” Novak breathes. He runs his fingers through his hair, glancing at the ceiling. “I’m going to change. Are you going to be alright?”

“Novak--”

“Please.” Novak cuts him off with a wave of his hand. A rueful smile manages to break through the permafrost of his expression. “If we’re going to be spending eight hours a day together, we can at least call each other by our first names, yes?” There’s an earnest expression in his eyes, completely at odds with the stoniness of his face on the drive over. Confronted with that look, Dean’s stomach does a quick swoop and dive. He tries to look away, but Novak’s eyes are deep pools, and Dean’s drowning. 

Novak smiles. The expression completely changes the planes of his face, turns him warm and inviting and utterly, completely, devastating. “Detective Winchester, I’m Castiel.” He holds his hand out. 

It’s a nice hand, Novak’s hand. He’s got long, elegant fingers that wouldn’t look out of place dancing over piano keys or plucking at the strings of a guitar. Carefully pared nails, their beds clean. Dean can just barely spy the edges of calluses at the heel of his thumb and along the pads of his fingers. 

Novak’s--Castiel’s--grip is firm. His fingers wrap around the back of Dean’s hands, pressing into the skin there. He never breaks eye contact and Dean can barely suck in a single breath. He’s drowning, lungs filling up, those blue eyes filling him until there’s nothing left of him. 

Oh shit. 

Oh _no_. 

“Well, if you’re Castiel, then I’m Dean.” He doesn’t know where the words come from; certainly not from him. His brain is disconnected from his mouth, flying out somewhere among the rings of Saturn. All his body can do is hope to continue existing until his brain comes rocketing back. 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you Dean.” One last squeeze and finally, Castiel releases Dean’s hand. 

When their skin separates, the world comes rushing back. Sights, sounds, colors--they all pummel Dean with their relentless sensory input. He wants nothing more than to retreat into himself, but he doesn’t have that luxury. 

“Jo and Charlie fitted your bedroom with blackout curtains. Don’t pull them back.” 

Novak’s face registers both surprise and irritation. “You really think...You think that someone’s actually waiting outside to shoot me through my bedroom window?” Castiel’s face is a little pitying, like he’s humoring Dean’s paranoia. 

Too bad for him that it’s Dean's literal job to be paranoid. 

“I don’t know Cas. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if someone’s waiting across the street, or if they’re waiting outside the courthouse, or if they’re waiting on your drive home. But I know that there is someone waiting for you and that they know your routines well enough to predict where you’re going to take your assistant for brunch. And someone who knows that information isn’t someone that I’m willing to underestimate.” 

For a second, Novak’s confident mask drops. He looks older in that moment, exhausted. He slumps down on the arm of the couch, dropping his head in his hands. “It’s just a case,” he murmurs, more to himself than Dean. “It’s just…” 

A wild desire seizes Dean--to wrap his arms around Novak’s shoulders, to press his forehead into the wild tangle of his hair, to murmur platitudes into his ear. To maybe taste the dusting of stubble on his jaw. To feel the loosening of tension in Novak’s body, feel him relaxing into Dean’s body--

Dean yanks himself back from the edge as Novak takes a deep breath. “Ok. Ok.” Novak glances towards the kitchen, suddenly unsure. “Can I get you anything? Drink or--”

“I’m working,” Dean interrupts, because if Novak--if Castiel--offers him a drink, like they do this all the time, like they’re _friends_ , then he might just die right there. Not to mention that Bobby would skin him alive if there was even a hint of him drinking while he was on the job. “You don’t have to entertain me Cas. I’m not a guest.” 

Castiel frowns as a small line of tension knits itself between his eyebrows. “Of course, I should have realized. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just going to…” Caught for an answer, Dean gestures towards the living room. “I’ve got paperwork.” 

“All right. All right.” With that, Castiel slinks back to the bedroom, leaving Dean alone to curse his own stupidity. 

\---

Dean likes to think that he has a fairly strong moral center. 

You get offers of bribes, more than you’d think, when you’re on the force. When the cuffs bite into wrists and desperation kicks in, people start offering money, sex, and whatever else comes to mind. Some of the offers have been damn tempting. Dean’s turned every one of them down and never had a second’s doubt about any of it. 

But watching Castiel Novak trundle out to the living room dressed in a t-shirt and a very thin pair of sweatpants? 

That taxes his self-control. 

The man moves around his living room like he’s completely ignorant of the fact that he has the body of an underwear model. After a few awkward glances at Dean and a couple of failed attempts at conversation, Castiel settles into the oversized armchair at the opposite side of the room. He pulls a few folders into his lap and starts to make notes on a legal pad. Meanwhile, Dean tries and fails not to sneak surreptitious glances at Castiel. 

It’s almost criminal, the way that Castiel puts a pen between his teeth as he flips through papers. Dean’s supposed to be protecting Castiel from a bullet, but who’s going to protect Dean from the casual flick of Castiel’s tongue against his lower lip? 

An hour passes, Castiel making notes and murmuring softly to himself, before Dean cracks and shatters the silence. “So why not give the case up?” Castiel’s eyes fall on him and Dean hastens to explain. “I mean, you’re literally getting death threats. Why not just pass it on to someone else?” A few truly agonizing moments pass, during which Dean watches Castiel rub at the back of his neck while letting out a long, dissatisfied sigh. 

Castiel jerks to attention. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose, giving Dean an unimpeded view of those eyes. “Beg pardon?” he asks. He shoves his glasses up onto his forehead as the tips of his fingers rub at his eyes. 

“Why not give this case up? You’ve gotten threats over it; why not pass it on to someone else?” 

Castiel looks down at the papers spread over his lap and the cushions of the couch. Above them, an analogue clock ticks away the minutes. Dean’s shoulder holster presses into his skin, a silent reminder of his purpose here. 

With a sigh, Castiel sets his papers down. “You know how many times I was told to drop this case?” Castiel flicks through his pad. “The District Attorney, Mr. Zachariah Adler himself, came up to my suite personally and told me that he thought that my time would be better spent pursuing other avenues. And a suggestion from him…” Castiel huffs, irritation in the sound. “It might as well be a law handed down from the Almighty himself.” 

“But you thought otherwise?” Dean prompts, after a long moment. Interrogation 101, let the other person tell the story in their own words, never put words in their mouth, unless you want some asshole defense attorney to slam you with it later on cross-exam. From the wry look that Castiel shoots him, he recognizes the tactic. No doubt he’s done quite a few interrogations in his own time. 

“The mother came to me. Who knows how she found my office. Maybe just the luck of the draw.” Castiel taps his index finger on his chin. “Her son...Jesse. She and her husband took him out to celebrate that evening because he’d made all A’s on his report card.” Castiel’s eyes are bleak as he looks beyond Dean, at a memory that clearly still hurts. “He wanted a dog. His parents told him that he couldn’t have one unless he got good grades in school…” Castiel’s voice catches in his throat. He coughs once, briskly, and continues. 

“So she came to my office, pictures in hand, statements from a doctor--Jesse was healthy. Never had the chickenpox, never missed a day from school. There was no reason for a seemingly healthy boy to drop dead. No reason at all for any of the victims to drop dead. 

“It took me a year to build up this case. The number of times that the labs ‘lost’ my samples? The witnesses who disappeared? The ones who _forgot_?” Castiel’s jaw tightens as he looks at Dean. “Dick Roman is a monster. He might not look like one, but he’d swallow the entire world if it meant that he could get what he wanted. And he’ll keep on until someone stops him.” 

“And that someone has to be you?” 

Castiel smiles, a helpless expression that encompasses the fragile little hope still beating at the pulse of the world. “Who else would it be?” 

That simple. That easy. Like there was never another answer to give. 

Something warm gutters to life in the pit of Dean’s belly and all he can think is _Oh. Oh no_. 

\---

For the next week, Dean’s days fall into a predictable routine.

He spends eight hours on duty with Castiel, splitting the time evenly between Castiel’s office and his home. After Jo shows up to relieve him at midnight, he drives back to his apartment, where he crashes on his bed for six hours, before he wakes up and drags himself to the precinct. There he goes over every piece of information about Dick Roman, Edgar, Sucrocorp, and LV-1THN. He talks to doctors, chemists, and everyone in between, searching for a lead. 

“You look tired,” Hannah says one night, over another late dinner at Castiel’s office. 

Dean blinks, his eyes strained and sore from peering at his laptop for too many hours. Hannah smiles at him. “You just...you look tired is all.” 

Dean glances at the clock. Almost nine and he can hear the steady click of keys coming from Castiel’s office as he types up another brief. “Well, whatever hours I’m working, your boss works longer ones, so until he complains, I don’t think that I can.” 

Hannah gives him a little grimace. “I know that Castiel wasn’t the most welcoming when you first came, but he understands the necessity of it. He just...He doesn’t like admitting that he needs help sometimes. You should have seen him when I first came to work for him--insisted that he didn’t need an assistant, that he could do everything himself. For a few weeks, I thought that I was going to be getting paid for doing nothing, he was so deadset against my being here.” 

Dean props his chin on his hand. “What changed?” 

Hannah shrugs. “I guess he got used to me. Maybe I wore him down. The first time that he asked me to file a report for him…” Hannah smiles at the memory, a private, fond thing. “I thought that I was going to faint. And now…” She gestures at the office. “What I’m trying to say is that, even though he doesn’t say it, he does appreciate you being here.” 

Dean smiles thinly. “I’m not so sure of that.” 

Castiel, it seems, flips back and forth between benign indifference and vitriolic hatred of the constant police presence. Jo usually gets the worst of it, subjected as she is to Castiel’s apparent hatred of mornings before he’s mainlined at least two cups of coffee, but neither Dean nor Benny are immune to the occasional sharp-tongued rebuke. 

In fact, Dean had gotten to experience a fraction of Castiel’s temper the previous night when he forbade him from going out on a late-night jog-- _for energy_ , Castiel said, like anyone ever came back from a jog feeling better about themselves. 

“Are you serious?” Dean snapped, watching Castiel stubbornly tug on his running shoes. “Someone’s trying to take a shot at you, and you think running in pitch black darkness is a good idea?” 

“I’m neither a child nor a criminal and as such, do not need constant supervision, Detective.” Castiel’s chin jutted out in challenge. “I’m a District Attorney with the Lawrence Justice System, and I’ve put away more criminals than you’ve dealt with your whole career.” He stepped in close to Dean, close enough that Dean could smell the sharp, spicy scent of his cologne still clinging valiantly to his skin. “You should show me some respect.” 

“You’re under my protection,” Dean gritted out, trying not to focus on the tantalizing sight of Castiel’s clavicle, revealed by the loose collar of his t-shirt. “And if I have to protect you from yourself, then I’ll handcuff you to that damn chair until you come to your senses.” 

That had gone over about as well as Dean had thought that it would. He’d won in the end; Castiel had stayed home, but he’d also refused to talk to Dean for the remainder of the night. From anyone else the behavior would have been petulant, but Castiel’s pointed silence is devastating. 

It had hurt more than it should have, when Castiel had gone to bed without saying his customary “Goodnight Dean.” Dean had spent the last hour of his shift, reading the same case file over and over again and never understanding a word of it. When Jo came to relieve him at midnight, he shoves past her, ignoring both her questions and her pithy insults. 

He went home and threw himself into an unsatisfying shower. He resolutely ignored the half-chub stirring between his legs, though he did pause to glare at it. “No,” he said sharply. His dick, traitor that it was, remained stubbornly half-hard, even as he tumbled into bed. Even there, the memory of Castiel’s glare haunted him, until Dean finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep. 

In the morning he’s still irritated and dissatisfied. Even the sight of Sam’s name in his inbox doesn’t lift his mood, though he does punch in a quick call to his brother. 

“Dean! Hey, what’s up?” Sam is breathless. He’s been breathless for at least three years now, even since he accepted a job with the Topeka chapter of the ACLU. It’s a thankless job, but Sam seems to enjoy it, and really, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? 

That’s not what their father thought, but the man has been dead and in the ground for five years. It’s probably about time that Dean stopped treating his word as gospel. 

“Not much.” Dean smothers a yawn in the back of his hand. “On a protective detail right now, trying to babysit this lawyer till trial. Hey,” he says, studiously casual, “maybe you’ve heard of him. Castiel Novak? Works at the Lawrence District Attorney’s office?” 

“What Dean, you think that all lawyers just hang out at these magical lawyer conventions? That we have a secret handshake and we can recognize each other by our shoelaces?” 

“I don’t know, can you?” Dean snarks, before he manages to calm the instinct in him that still screams, after all these years, to torture his younger brother. “C’mon, spill Sammy, you know him or not?”

A long pause, and then Sam admits, reluctance clear, “Yeah, I met him at a conference about a year ago.” Then, with a spark of interest, “He’s the one prosecuting the Dick Roman case, right?” 

“The one and the same.” Dean settles into his armchair. 

Sam makes a small noise of approval. “I know at least three other ADAs that are pissed that he got there first. Prosecuting someone like Roman...He’s going to make a name for himself.” 

Dean flashes back to that night a week ago, when he’d sat across from Castiel and asked why he did it. Why didn't he just hand off the case to someone else? _Who else would it be?_ Castiel had asked, a bone-deep weariness in his voice. 

“He’s not in it for the press,” Dean says, probably a little too quickly if Sam’s silence on the other end is anything to judge by. “I just mean...Getting your life threatened is a little far to go for some good headlines, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t be so sure. I’ve known some that would sell their souls if it meant that they could make partner and get a corner office.” Sam pauses for a moment. In the background, Dean hears the quiet whirs of an office waking up. “So why is Castiel Novak the hot topic of conversation?” 

There’s something in his brother’s voice that Dean doesn’t like. “Just wanted to know your opinion. I’ve been with this guy for a week now and I still can’t get any kind of a read on him.” 

Not true. Dean gets plenty of reads on Castiel. It’s just each one comes from a different book. He’s still not sure which is the real Castiell--the hyper-competent and focused lawyer, the absent-minded professor, or the raging asshole. 

“I mean, I met the man for five minutes a year ago. We didn’t exactly discuss our hopes and dreams at the time.” Sam’s sigh is explosive and long-suffering, exactly how Atlas must have sounded when he took up the weight of the world. “I mean, he seemed focused. Driven. Ethical.” 

“Boring.” Dean scratches his stomach. “He’s not boring Sammy, what else you got?” 

“Well, it looks like you know him a damn sight better than I do, so why are you asking me?” Dean can almost picture the bitchy little twist of Sam’s mouth. Dean’s knuckles itch with the urge to wipe that expression off his brother’s face. “Look Dean, you’re with the guy for eight hours a day. You’re in his house every night for God’s sake. Why don’t you tell me what he’s like, if you’re so interested?”

“Because I can’t tell if this guy is a fricking saint come down to earth or the devil himself. I mean, one second he’s fine and we’re laughing and then the next second he’s driving me absolutely crazy. Swear to God Sammy, sometimes I am this close to rooting for the bad guy.” 

“You don’t mean that. And don’t call me Sammy,” is added as an afterthought. “Look Dean, just treat it like a job, all right? You don’t have to be friends with the guy, hell you don’t even have to like him. It might be easier if you don’t. Your job is just to make sure that he stays alive long enough to put Roman behind bars. And everything else...none of that matters, all right?” 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, though it’s empty. 

He already knows that Castiel matters. 

*~*~*~*~*~*


	4. the compliment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to one of the best tv shows of all time, West Wing. Thanks for providing some of the inspiration for this chapter.

*~*~*~*~*~*

When he arrives at Castiel’s suite, the man is predictably locked away in his office. Hannah gives him a tight smile, but doesn’t offer conversation. She’s too busy cross-referencing the contents of two different folders with a fearsomely large book open in front of her. The sounds of quiet conversation leak through Castiel’s office door. 

By now, Dean has his own routine. He pulls out a chair at the conference table, strategically placed so that he can see the whole office from his vantage point. He keeps his eyes to the door, ready to spring into action at any moment, though he doubts the need for him to do so. Any would-be assassin would have to be bold indeed to try and slip past the guards and metal detectors downstairs. He’s already examined Castiel’s office and instructed him that as long as he keeps his desk where it is, out of the line of fire from the window, he’s safe in there. Within the four walls of the suite, Dean feels like he can let his guard down a little. 

The file of the day is spread out in front of him. He’d picked it up from Jody before heading here and hadn’t had a chance to look through the contents. He does so now, flipping through the two photographs before reading the brief case information. 

Linda and Kevin Tran. Kevin Tran had made some noise about Dick Roman’s less than savory business practices, and had then received some visits from some less than savory individuals. His mother had reported strange men hanging around the house as well as her work. According to his friends, Kevin hadn’t shut up about it, had kept pushing. Then one day, he and his mother were just...gone. No signs of a struggle in the house, but Linda Tran had never reported to work. Kevin hadn’t shown up to his SAT, nor had he ever reported to any of the many colleges who had offered him admission. They were just...gone. 

Dean reads through the case file again, just to make sure that he didn’t miss anything. His gut tells him that there’s something more to the story. If Kevin’s accusations were baseless, then why bother following him? Why bother bringing his mother into it? And most importantly--if those accusations were empty, why did Kevin and Linda Tran seemingly disappear off the face of the earth? No, there’s something more here; Dean knows it. He needs to find these people. 

He’s just come to that conclusion when the door to Castiel’s office opens. “Detective Winchester,” he says, giving no indication of whether or not he’s still displeased with Dean. “I think that I’m going to make an early night of it.” 

“Really?” Dean tries to keep his voice as blank as Castiel’s, but he can’t hide the upwards inflection of surprise. It’s barely seven. He doesn’t think that he’s ever seen Castiel leave the office earlier than nine. 

Castiel smiles at him, a thin, knife-sharp expression and Dean has a moment to be concerned before Castiel says, “Yes, I thought that I would go on a run this evening. I already had Ion stop by the house to pick up a change of clothes, so you won’t even need to worry about lost time driving to the house.” Deliberately misinterpreting Dean’s incredulous stare, Castiel pats at his ribs. “I’m off my normal regime and it’s starting to show.” 

_Where_? Dean wants to ask, because from where he’s standing, he can’t see any difference in Castiel’s trim figure. But Sam had told him to treat this just like a regular job, which is what he tries to do when he grits out, “I thought we already discussed why evening runs were a bad idea.” 

Caught between the two of them, Hannah’s eyes flit back and forth like she’s at a tennis match. Her expression alternates between avid interest and intense discomfort. Dean advances on Castiel, but the other man stands his ground, chin lifted in defiance. 

Dean has the uncomfortable feeling that if he gets into a verbal argument with this man, then he’s going to lose. Badly. 

Lucky for him, he has a gun on his side. 

“It’s my job to assess the danger of every situation. And as I explained to you last night, going out for a run in your neighborhood is simply not feasible.” He’s polite. He’s professional. 

He speaks the words through gritted teeth, but he is professional while doing it. 

Castiel smiles at him again, deliberately disarming. “If you’re so worried about my safety Detective Winchester, you’re more than welcome to join me.” 

Him, going for an evening jog with Castiel? Dean goes to the gym; his job demands a certain level of physical fitness, but he’s more than happy to stick to weight training and leave all the cardio stuff for Sam. Not to mention that the thought of having to watch that perky ass disappear in front of him while he wheezes along behind Castiel sends a surge of boiling heat straight through his body. 

“Let me tell you all the ways that that’s not going to happen,” Dean laughs, before he remembers that he’s supposed to be professional. 

Castiel’s expression shutters, leaving nothing but naked irritation behind. “Well then, what do you suggest we do?”

His eyes are two chips of ice, and for a moment, Dean is sure that they’re going to freeze him solid. It’s obvious that they’re headed towards a confrontation, one that leads to either Castiel doing something monumentally stupid or Dean snapping and saying the wrong thing, which would lead to him getting kicked off this case. Neither one of those are really an option, so he thinks and fast. After a few seconds, he comes up with, “You can use the gym at the precinct.” 

Castiel blinks. Obviously taken aback, it takes him a few seconds to recover. “You have a gym at the precinct?” At Dean’s nod, he tries again. “Is it any good?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “We run after bad guys all day long. Yeah, it’s pretty good.” 

“Oh. Well, all right then.” Suddenly conciliatory, Castiel offers Dean an expression that could almost be friendly. “I’ll just get my bag then, and we can go.” 

“Great. Awesome.” Castiel slips back in his office and, without the drama of impending combat, Dean slumps against the wall, suddenly unable to hold himself upright. Hannah finally moves from her desk and walks across the room. 

“Don’t worry,” she says kindly, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re doing just fine.” 

\---

Dean doesn’t stick around to watch Castiel work out. They’re in a precinct full of armed officers. If Edgar is stupid enough to try anything now, then he’s welcome to. Dean knows of at least two people on duty who would love to put a bullet through his skull. 

He tells Castiel that he needs to get in some shooting practice at the range, which is true. It’s just not the whole truth. 

The whole truth is, that if Dean were to sit there and watch Castiel work out in his too thin t-shirt and his running shorts which do _nothing_ to hide either the curve of his ass or the taut muscles of his calves, Dean knows that he’d be hard-pressed to hide a stiffy. At the very least, that would lead to several awkward drives and shifts. At worst, Castiel could end up pressing sexual harassment charges against him. 

So he leaves Castiel in the gym, examining the treadmill, and he makes his way to the locker room. It’s a quick change of clothes from his business casual uniform to sweatpants and an old shirt proclaiming L.P.D. in faded, peeling letters. He treks downstairs to the range and signs in, before he takes his goggles and earmuffs and sets up a target. He sets his phone down on the table so that he can see when Castiel texts him, and then he sights down the line at his target. 

He’s a good shot. His father and Bobby made damn sure of that. From the time he was old enough to hold up a BB gun, his father had him picking off cans in the backyard. It progressed from there, until John had him taking apart his Colt and putting it back together in complete darkness. At 15, Dean was a crack shot. By 18, he was enrolled in community college for his associate’s degree, since making Detective was the ultimate goal. By 21, he was a beat cop, gunning for his promotion. At 25, after a wave of good luck brought on by hard work, he made Detective, and he’s never looked back.

As he picks up his department issued Glock, Dean’s mind takes on the comfortable blankness brought on by the feel of a firearm in his hands. The metal warming from his touch, the weight of the gun in his hands, the rough grip in his palm--all these things are safe and familiar. His hands know how to contour to the gun, his feet know how to balance and support him. He knows how to brace for the recoil and let it ripple through his body instead of trying to fight against it. Here, there’s nothing else except the target, the easy squeeze of the trigger, and the sharp reports as his bullets fly. 

He empties his magazine before he stops to gauge his progress. When he hits the button next to him, his target comes into sight. It’s full of chest shots and a few headshots, just to be on the safe side. 

Dean glances down at his phone. No missed calls or new messages, which means that Cas isn’t done yet. He snaps a fresh target onto the board, loads a new magazine and goes again. 

Once more, the world floats away, leaving Dean in a hyper-focused haze, where nothing else exists in the world other than the short distance separating himself from the target. Dean could exist this way for the rest of his life, if he needed to, but he’s yanked out of his reverie by a tap on the shoulder. 

“What the hell?” he spits, whirling around, because you don’t sneak up on a man who has a loaded gun in his hand. Every cop in the precinct should know that. Every cop in the precinct does know that. 

But Castiel Novak doesn’t know that. 

Dean comes face to face with a sweaty, satisfied A.D.A., who’s examining his gun and the target with a little too much interest. “I’m done,” Castiel says, flicking his eyes back to Dean’s face. 

“I told you to text me when you were done.” Dean still hasn’t quite managed to calm his raging pulse, but he’s at least not ready to jump out of his skin. Small victories. 

Castiel shrugs. He’s still looking at the gun. “I figured that I would just come find you. The desk sergeant told me where you would be.” 

Dean makes a mental note to find out whoever is on duty and make them fear for their life. 

“All right, so I guess you’re ready to go home?” He turns to pack up, but he’s stopped by Castiel stepping forward. 

“You should let me have a turn.” His eyes flick from the gun to the target, leaving no doubt as to what he wants. 

The request, phrased as a command, comes out of nowhere. Dean thought that he couldn’t be surprised by anything to do with this man, he really did. But somehow, Castiel Novak always manages to knock him on his ass. 

“Beg pardon?” Dean finally manages. 

Castiel shrugs. He could almost pass for nonchalant, had Dean not already seen the sly light in his eyes. “You should let me try some target practice. I think it could be interesting.” 

“No.” The refusal comes so quickly that Dean doesn’t even have time to think about why he’s giving it. 

Castiel’s eyes go flat and disappointed. “It was just a thought,” he says, hefting his duffel bag over his shoulder. 

And that...As stupid as it would be to let Castiel fire his gun, it’s somehow worse to hear that blank tone of voice directed towards him, _again_. “Cas. Cas, wait.” 

Castiel pauses before he slowly turns around. One brow lifts when Dean doesn’t speak. “It’s late Detective. I do actually have things that I need to do at home.” 

“Why do you want to?” Dean asks, in a bid for more time. 

That earns him a considering look as well as Castiel coming a few steps closer. “Like I said, I thought it could be interesting. I’ve never shot a gun before. Perhaps I’m interested to see what all the fuss is about.” 

“Uh-huh.” Dean’s not wholly convinced. Castiel is brilliant; there’s no way that he isn’t playing at least three different angles with this request. But Dean can’t puzzle it out of him, and besides, would it really be such a terrible thing? They’re in the range, which was built for safety, and Dean is nothing if not an expert in firearms. What trouble could Castiel really get himself into? 

“All right.” 

Castiel’s eyes light up and he steps closer. Already, his hands are stretching out for the gun, but Dean jerks backwards. “Oh hell no. Not until you put these on.” He holds out the goggles and ear protectors. Amazingly, Castiel doesn’t utter one word of objection as he slides both onto his head. 

And this is where Dean discovers that he made a tactical error. If Castiel was already absurdly attractive in his gym clothes, then he’s reached truly catastrophic levels of hotness when he snaps the protectors over his ears. When Dean carefully puts the gun in Castiel’s hands, his stomach sinks lower. He was not prepared. Not for this. 

“This is interesting,” Castiel muses, a little too loud to compensate for the fact that most of his hearing is muffled. His eyes flick to Dean’s. There’s a smile flirting around the edges of his lips. That smile reaches out and punches Dean, right in his self-control. 

“All right,” Dean says gruffly. He pushes one of the ear coverings away, ignoring the tendril of hair that brushes against his fingers as he does so. He nudges Castiel into something resembling correct posture with the back of his hand. “Two hands around the barrel, lead foot ahead just slightly. Both your feet on railroad tracks, parallel with each other. Knees bent slightly for a better center of gravity.” 

Castiel does what he says, the most compliant that Dean’s ever seen him. By now, Dean’s stomach is twisting and turning in complicated knots. This was a mistake, he realizes this now. Standing this close to Castiel, feeling the heat and sweat coming off of him...Dean wants out of this situation. He wants his shift to be over so that he can go home, throw himself into the shower, rub a quick one out, and collapse into bed. 

He most certainly does not want to stand behind Castiel Novak, one hand on his shoulder and one on his waist. The heat of Castiel’s skin bleeds through the warm material of the shirt, almost scorching his palm. Castiel shifts and Dean bites back a muttered curse, because that’s muscle under his hands. Hard, taut muscle, and he needs to be out of this situation like yesterday. 

“I’ll help you brace,” he says. “The recoil can be a bitch if you’re not expecting it.” 

To his surprise, Castiel shakes off his hands. “I’ll be fine,” he says, voice tight with concentration. “I can handle it.” 

And maybe, if Dean were a better person, he would argue and insist that no, Castiel won’t be fine, and the recoil really is a bitch and a half if he’s not used to it, and he probably does need the extra help. But Dean isn’t a good person, hell, he’s barely an ok person. So he just says, “All right big boy. Whatever you want.” 

He doesn’t miss the positively hateful look that Castiel shoots him before he turns his attention back to the target. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and then--

“Son of a bitch!” 

It’s possible that Castiel’s curse is louder than the gunshot itself. Dean looks on with amusement as Castiel staggers backward, hand massaging his shoulder. “Fuck,” he breathes quietly, glaring at the gun, the target, the floor, Dean--anything seems fair game for his anger. “I’ve been wrong all these years. Hand these things out to criminals.” 

“You got it out of your system?” Dean asks. He reaches out for his gun, ready to snap it into his holster so he can call an end to his ill-advised venture, but he’s not prepared for Castiel yanking the gun just out of his reach. 

“All right, so let’s see what you’ve got.” 

“Beg pardon?” 

A slow, devilish smile spreads across Castiel’s face. Dean doesn’t trust it for a second. “You got your fun, you got to laugh. Now it’s your turn.” Castiel purses his lips in thought. ”Make it a little interesting,” Castiel proposes, laying the gun in his hand. “You’ve got seven shots in there. If you land three in the bullseye then you win. If you don’t, then I win. And if I win, I get to go on my runs whenever and wherever I feel like it.” 

It’s a struggle to keep his expression and posture nonchalant, but he manages it. Dean shrugs. “Sure. Why not.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow in suspicion as he spares a moment to think. “Way too easy. You must know that you can do it no problem.” Castiel smirks, clearly thinking that he’s won. “All right, up the ante. You get five in the bullseye, then you win, and I won’t bug you about my jogging anymore.” 

Dean checks the chamber before he looks at Castiel. This man...This infuriating, inexplicable man, who leaves him wrong-footed more often than not, that Dean is sworn to protect, that sends a little squirm of _something_ shooting through Dean’s stomach every time he looks at him. It’s a dangerous road to walk down--he knows it, Sam made it abundantly clear, but still he finds himself blurting out, “Fine. And if I win--” He flicks his tongue out over his lower lip. He doesn’t miss how Castiel’s eyes track the movement. “If I win, you have to say something nice about me.” 

He catches the surprised tilt to Castiel’s head, the quickly suppressed huff of amusement. Before he can say anything else too damning, he turns back around to focus his attention on the target. He makes a show of it, furrowing his brow and clicking his tongue against his teeth, because he’s nothing if not a showman when he’s hustling. Finally, he forces Castiel to say, “You look pensive Detective.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Dean easily slides his body into position, arms going the strange combination of slack and taut. “You just told me to put five in the center. I’m wondering what I’m going to do with the other two.” 

“All right, that’s a lot of big talk--” 

Without warning, Dean squeezes off seven shots, smooth as silk. The bangs echo around the range, effectively silencing Castiel. As the last echoes fade, there’s only the sounds of the last casing hitting the floor and Castiel’s soft breathing. Without ever looking over at Castiel, Dean slaps his hand against the button to bring the target forward. 

“Unbelievable,” Castiel breathes, unknowingly shouldering Dean aside as he leans in closer to get a better view. Dean fights the urge to gloat as Castiel squints and counts. The target stops in front of them, revealing what Dean already knew. Five bullet holes sit square in the center of the target. “That’s five. Right in what I would call dead-center.” Castiel blinks before he turns back to Dean. “There were seven bullets. Where did…” 

Dean gestures back towards the target. Two of the holes are just the smallest bit larger than the others. He tells himself that he’s just pleased with the acknowledgement of his capabilities as a marksman, but he knows that’s not the whole reason his innards are wriggling. 

“Son of a bitch,” Castiel says again, softly. 

Dean can’t help it. He does preen when Castiel turns back to look at him. It’s inevitable. Castiel is hot and impressed and Dean does well with appreciation and praise. Speaking of…

“Well?” he says, after a short moment. “I’m waiting.” 

Castiel blinks, coming back to the present. “Yes. Well.” He looks Dean over, his eyes flicking to Dean’s hands, his waist, and then his shoulders and face. He looks almost coy as he bites his lower lip for the briefest of moments. “You,” he begins, and it’s possible that Castiel has a hint of showmanship in his blood as well, “You...have very pretty eyes. And your smile. It’s very nice.” 

A swift pink flush chases itself across the bridge of Castiel’s nose before he clears his throat. “So. It’s time to leave?” He jerks his head towards the door. “I’ll just...I’ll wait for you.” 

And Dean can only stare after him, perplexed and confused, and all the while nursing a persistent warm ache in his chest. 

\---

Another week passes. Dean makes no progress on locating either the Trans or Edgar, and Dick Roman’s court date creeps steadily closer. 

The Castiel who flirted with him is long gone. Replacing him is a snappish, cold beast who grunts when spoken to and works in his office until the clock edges up into double digits. Not even Hannah dares to approach him some nights, and Dean grows accustomed to the sharper side of Castiel’s temper. 

Not that Castiel’s the only one feeling the strain. 

When Dean walks into the precinct Tuesday morning, he drops heavily into his chair and listens to the tired springs creak under his weight. He’s exhausted, the weight of fruitless investigations and Castiel’s constant ire pressing down on him. His shoulders are tense, to the point that there’s pain when he moves the wrong way (hint: all ways are the wrong way). 

Normally, when he’s in this kind of mood, Charlie’s face would be a welcome distraction. But when she comes towards him, face unwontedly serious, Dean somehow knows that this is only the start of more bad news. 

“Gotta show you something.” Charlie neatly elbows him out of the way as she taps on a few keys. A new window opens on his screen. A quick glance tells Dean that it’s an email account. A second, longer glance reveals that it’s Castiel’s. 

“So you know that we’ve got Novak under surveillance--his house, his office, and I’ve gotten a backdoor into his email. It was just supposed to be a precaution, but in the past day it’s turned up something interesting.” She moves Dean’s mouse to a particular email that’s already been opened. “Take a look.” 

Dean scans over the email. The sender’s name is just an empty bunch of numbers with a generic tagline at the end. The subject line is blank. But it’s the content of the message that freezes Dean’s blood. 

_Novak, saw that you got yourself a protection detail. Now there’s just going to be more bodies surrounding you. Give up the case unless you want blondie’s brains spilled over your sidewalk._

“Blondie,” Dean murmurs, trying to speak past the cold fingers squeezing around his heart. Next to him, Charlie is stiff. Dean knows that he’s treading into dangerous territory, but he has to confirm. “Assuming that he means Jo?” 

“She’s the blondiest one out of all of you.” Charlie’s words are stilted and her fingers beat in an irregular rhythm on the desk. 

“So he’s still watching,” Dean murmurs. He’s trying to force his overworked and exhausted brain to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but it’s sluggish. Every inch of ground he gains is a hard-fought battleground. “He’s picked up on the police protection, which is fine, because we weren’t really trying to hide it.” There’s something else that he’s missing, some tiny piece. After a second of staring at the email, it slots into place. “Jo. He saw Jo. Not me and not Benny.” 

He looks at Charlie. “He’s doing his surveillance in the morning. All those pictures of Castiel--we didn’t notice the time of day that they were taken, but they were all taken in the morning.” 

“So what’s he doing in the afternoon or evening?” Charlie asks. A spark of interest lights in her voice. 

“Now ain’t that the million dollar question?” Dean taps at his chin. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could figure that out?” 

By now the gears in his brain are churning away. He almost doesn’t register Charlie next to him until she coughs. “Hey,” he says, throwing in a slightly apologetic look for good measure, “Cas--Novak hasn’t seen this, right?” 

The flutter of Charlie’s eyelids tells him that she didn’t miss his slip of the tongue, but rather, she’s tucking it into her back pocket so she can bring that piece of ammunition out at the worst possible time. “Of course not. I set up a program to filter through his emails. Anything suspicious and it goes to me. He never knew that it was there at all.” 

“Good. That’s the last thing he needs right now, seeing this shit.” 

Charlie’s eyebrow quirks upward again and something squirms uncomfortably in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “I just mean...man’s under a lot of stress. He doesn’t need to know that someone’s still gunning for him.” Charlie doesn't say anything but Dean feels the weight of her judgmental eyes pressing down on his shoulders. “Whatever. Shut up.” He says this, despite the fact that Charlie hasn’t said anything. “Can you have any suspicious emails forwarded to me?” 

“Sure thing.” 

Charlie leaves the email on his computer screen as she goes back to Cybercrimes. Dean looks at the email again. His stomach churns uncomfortably as he thinks about Jo escorting Castiel to his office, the wide open spaces that leave them so very vulnerable as they walk up the steps to the courthouse. 

For a second, he’s seized with the urge to race over to the courthouse and make sure that Castiel is in his office, whole and unharmed. He has a sudden, visceral need to see Castiel’s eyes narrowing in dislike and to hear his sharp growl of irritation. It’s so bad that he actually gets up from his chair before he forces himself to stop. 

Castiel isn’t expecting him until four in the afternoon. If he shows up now then he’s going to have to explain what he’s doing there. It would be a perfectly logical question to ask and when he does, Dean’s not going to have an answer for it. 

So he forces himself to sit back down and chase unfulfilling leads on the Trans and Edgar until it’s time to go report in for his shift. He can’t keep still, his foot jiggling and fingers tapping on his desk. When he finally gets in his car and starts driving towards the courthouse, a weight lifts off of his chest. 

And Dean, master of deception, especially when it comes to himself, ignores it. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	5. the fight

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean walks into a warzone, only he doesn’t realize until Benny leaves. As he’s walking out, Benny claps him on the shoulder and mutters, “Hang in there brother.” Dean, fool that he is, doesn’t realize that’s his last warning, his chance to get out. The door closes behind Benny, leaving Dean alone with Hannah in a room where it feels as though the walls are progressively closing in.

Dean only realizes the danger when he hears Castiel’s voice slicing through the silence. It’s at a register that Dean’s never heard before, and by this time, he’s listened to Castiel’s voices reach a variety of tempos. Dean listens a little harder and starts to pick out individual words.

“Yes sir, I understand Mr. Adler, but if you would just let me...Sir, I understand your concern, but I don’t think that you...Sir, if you just please let me finish--” Castiel’s voice wobbles on the fine line between assertive and demanding, frustration clear through every word.

Judging from the one-sided conversation, it becomes clear that District Attorney Adler is doing everything in his power, short of an outright order, to make Castiel drop the case. Just as clear, Castiel refuses to do so. In the course of the conversation, Dean listens to Castiel become more and more irritated, until he’s speaking in a thick, guttural tone, which has to mean that he’s forcing his words out through gritted teeth. Dean’s never been so happy for Bobby in his entire life. Sure, Bobby is grumpy and his people skills sometimes need a little bit of polish, but Bobby’s never sat in his office and tried to blatantly undermine him the way that Adler seems to delight in doing to Castiel.

The conversation culminates in a sharp, "With all due respect sir, I will work this case until either I win it or it puts me in the ground and nothing you say will convince me otherwise!" from Castiel. Dean doesn't hear the exact words that Adler says in reply, but he can hear his tone through the phone, even through the seeming privacy of a closed door. Adler does not sound happy.

The sharp clatter of Castiel hanging up the phone echoes through the office. Even Hannah flinches. Her eyes dart to Castiel’s door. Dean can see the indecision on her face and knows that it’s mirrored on his.

The nurturing part of him wants to check on Castiel and make sure that he’s all right. The pragmatic part of him says that it’s none of his business. And the mean, hateful part of him says that maybe it’s about time that Castiel got treated like shit. He’s not proud of that last part, but he can’t deny its existence either.

A tomb like silence engulfs the office. Dean doesn’t even shuffle the papers on the table. He’s too busy waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Mount St. Castiel to erupt.

When Castiel opens the door, he’s sadly disappointed. Far from looking deranged or even put out, Castiel is as cool as ever. Maybe his hair is a little more mussed than usual, the whites of his eyes a little wilder, but nothing else about him gives the impression that he was just flayed within an inch of his life.

“Hannah, did you get those statements typed up? I’d like a chance to go over them. You know that Crowley is going to try and twist it around to make it look like our witnesses are fucking idiots.”

Dean blinks at hearing the curse word fall from Cas’ mouth. It’s not that Cas doesn’t curse, far from it, but it sounds somehow vulgar here in his office. Judging from the gobsmacked look on Hannah’s face, she thinks so too, but she recovers quicker than Dean. “Of course,” she murmurs before she scuttles off to the antechamber of the office suite.

Dean looks at the stormclouds chasing themselves across Castiel’s face and wishes he could follow her. For a second, he almost does. He’s never met anyone who could flay the skin from another human with nothing but the power of his eyes, but a slashing glance from Castiel has Dean feeling raw.

Castiel doesn’t say another word to Dean as he storms back into his office. Despite the fact that he doesn’t slam the door, the sound echoes through the office.

An hour later, Castiel emerges with his coat thrown over his arm. His eyes are gimlet and hard as he looks at Dean. “Detective, I’m leaving for the day,” he says. From the tone of his voice, Dean knows that Castiel is throwing down a challenge.

Dean doesn’t take him up on it. He keeps himself deliberately quiet and inoffensive all along the drive home. In the backseat, Castiel glowers at the world around him, his fingers tapping out an aggressive rhythm on his knees. His jaw is clenched so tight that Dean’s own muscles ache in sympathetic pain.

Castiel barely waits for Dean’s all-clear before he’s storming into the house. His movements are short and choppy and nothing like the unconscious grace that Dean’s come to associate with the man. His footsteps echo through the living room all the way to the kitchen, punctuated by the sharp sounds of cabinet doors slamming shut. Dean tucks his gun back into its holster before he follows.

Stupid really. Sam’s voice echoes in his head: _Treat it like a regular job_.

This isn’t a regular job. Dean’s known that from the first night he was on the job. And if that wasn’t convincing enough, then the past week would have been enough to make him a believer. And then, standing at the range with Castiel, close enough to feel the heat and smell the sweat...This isn’t a regular job, which is why Dean follows Castiel into the kitchen.

He finds Castiel with a dusty, half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a glass in the other. As an experienced drinker himself, Dean knows to be wary of the amount of amber liquid poured into that glass. He knows to be even warier of how Castiel tosses it back with hardly a wince. And he knows to be truly worried when Castiel fills up the glass again.

“Isn’t that enough?” Dean keeps his tone carefully non confrontational but it still strikes against the smoldering anger that Castiel’s been nursing all afternoon.

“It’s bad enough that you’re babysitting me, never letting me out of your sight, but do you have to start controlling me?”

Dean grits his teeth. Castiel’s tone is incendiary, mocking. His upper lip lifts in a sneer. He’s being deliberately antagonistic, trying to rile Dean up. Worst of all, it’s working. Dean can feel his temper start to spark and gutter to life. And Castiel right now is just throwing fuel onto the fire.

“I’m not controlling you,” Dean says, his voice tight. “I’m just trying to help. And coming from the guy whose job it is to take a bullet for you, I’d think that you would cool it a little bit with the attitude.”

This time Castiel’s upper lip lifts in a snarl. “Attitude is for over privileged teenagers, Detective.” He spits the word out like an insult. The spark catches and fans into a flame in Dean’s gut. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I am a fully adult man, who’s growing tired of having constant interference in my own life.”

“No, you’re a damn _child_ , having a temper tantrum because your boss tore you a new one today.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. There’s something spiteful in the way that he tosses back his drink, like he’s trying to hurt Dean with his actions. Dean’s not hurt; he’s irritated. Could become furious, if given the right provocation.

“Do you understand what happens when my boss becomes angry? Have you ever wondered? When he decides that we’re wasting time on cases, if he decides that we’re working on cases that we can’t win, then those cases get plea bargained, or worse yet, dismissed. And then, that eight year old boy, whose parents just wanted to reward him, then he dies for _nothing_ , and the people who are responsible get to do it all over again, and the world keeps turning, all because I wasn’t good enough to put together a convincing case!”

As Castiel continues, he stalks closer to Dean, who remains glued to the floor. He doesn’t move, either from shock or pure stubbornness, and Castiel doesn’t stop moving forward until his chest is a mere millimeter away from Dean’s. There’s something predatory in the way that he moves, as well as something of prey. Castiel moves like he’s getting ready to unsheathe his claws. He moves like he’s waiting for someone else’s claws to sink into him.

By the time he finishes his tirade, Castiel is shouting, his face shoved up close into Dean’s. His eyes are snapping and sparking with tension and temper. Standing this close, Dean feels the electric shock race through his body, igniting every piece of him, from his hair down to his fingertips. Christ, most people skydive to feel this alive, this present in their bodies, and Dean’s getting it here, for free, just from standing next to this man, this obnoxious, gorgeous, asshole of a man who can’t stop belittling Dean, but who also shreds himself to pieces for failing a child.

And Dean isn’t a saint, has never claimed to be one, so he thinks that he shouldn’t be blamed for what he does next, when he reaches forward and fists one hand in the soft tangle of hair at the back of Castiel’s neck and clamps the other hand at Castiel’s waist, and crashes their lips together.

At first, Castiel kisses back out of sheer reflex. His chapped lips part in surprise, and Dean doesn’t hesitate to make the kiss the right kind of dirty, tongue sweeping over the curve of his lower lip and teeth nipping at the plump flesh.

Castiel groans, low and filthy, and it’s like the sound jars something loose in him. Suddenly his hands, which had been hanging limp at his sides, are like iron, clamping around Dean’s wrist and hip. Hadn’t Dean noticed the curve of muscles in that bicep, in those forearms? Hadn’t he felt the strength of those shoulders? He’d ignored it then, but he can’t ignore it now, not when Castiel pushes against him, walking him backward until Dean’s back hits the wall hard enough to knock the air out of him.

_Fuck yeah_ , this is better, Castiel’s knee working between his so that Cas can pin him to the wall with his hips. Cas’ teeth are merciless as they bite into Dean’s lower lip, pulling back just to the point of pain before he lets go. Castiel’s tongue sweeps over the tender flesh, soothing the sting away.

Dean groans into Cas’ mouth. He’d thought, when he first started, that he was going to be in charge of this situation, but Cas’ kiss takes no prisoners. Control slips through Dean’s fingers and he couldn’t be happier to see it go. There’s no reason to complain when Cas’ mouth moves hot and slick over his cheek and to the bolt of his jaw.

“Oh, oh fuck.” Cas rolls his hips forward in a slow grind, which lets Dean know just how interested he is in this whole turn of events. “Oh shit Cas.” Cas’ only reply is to sink his teeth into the vulnerable flesh just below Dean’s jaw, almost but not quite hard enough to leave a mark.

“Cas, hold on for a second,” Dean pants. When that plea is either ignored or unheard, he twists his fingers in Cas hair, _hard_ , forcing Cas to pull away.

Cas’ eyes glitter, the blue almost eclipsed by the dark black of his pupils. His lips are slick and raw looking and his breath comes in short, harsh little pants. Even as their eyes lock, he strains against Dean’s hold.

“Hold on for a second,” Dean says, breathing deep and gaining control of his voice. Cas leans forward and Dean gives him a quick shake, enough to redirect his attention.

The soft whine that escapes from Cas’ lips travels straight to his dick.

“We need to--” Dean begins, before he realizes that he has no idea what they need to do. Talk? Stop?

Cas’ eyes turn into thin slits. “No, no, no, you don’t get to start something and then try and back out.” Dean opens his mouth, probably to suggest that he meant to do no such thing, but he’s stopped by two of Cas’ fingers pushing roughly against his lips. “So help me God,” Cas threatens, voice dipping into a low growl, “if you say that we need to talk, I’ll bite your dick off.”

Dean tries to ignore the frisson of pleasure that rockets down his spine, but it’s hard with Cas’ eyes undressing him. “All right,” he says slowly. He tries to force his brain to recalibrate, but it’s slow and stupid, too distracted by the sight of Cas smoothing his thumb over his lower lip. He should stop this, he should be the responsible one and think of his career, think of _both_ of their careers, but as he opens his mouth again, he knows that’s not what he’s thinking about. “I guess we’re not talking, but can we at least take this somewhere else?”

He looks around at the kitchen before raising a brow at Castiel. Cas follows his look before his eyes return to Dean’s face and for a moment, Dean thinks that’s it--He’s blown it, the moment’s gone, back to reality for both of them--

But he forgot how stubborn Cas can be when he sinks his teeth into something, how unyielding he is, in pleasure as well as in business.

“Fine,” Cas says, something darkly amused in his voice. “I trust you know where to find the bedroom?” The upward tick of his eyebrow dares Dean to say anything different.

Dean does not dare.

Cas’ eyes rest on him as Dean starts the short walk to the bedroom. The skin on the back of his neck is hot and prickly with the knowledge and it quickens his pace until he’s barely restraining himself from breaking out into a jog. Behind him, he can hear the soft sounds of Cas’ huffed chuckles, and his cheeks burn, but not for long.

The moment that Dean touches the handle to the door, Cas is on him. Plastered to his back, using Dean’s body to gain leverage for the few inches that he lacks, Cas’ teeth nip at his ear. “I’d make fun of you for being eager,” Dean digs his teeth into his lower lip to stifle a groan as Cas’ hands move from his hips to the front of his slacks, palming at the growing bulge in his pants, “but I find myself in the same predicament.” Cas grinds up into him, leaving Dean in no doubt as to how eager he is.

“Shit,” Dean breathes, clenching his fingers in the soft wood of the door frame. “Cas, are you sure--”

Cas’ hands twist him around so that Dean’s facing him, and Dean would be lying if he said that he didn’t get a good, low-down dirty thrill from the ease which Cas does it. He stares into blue eyes and tastes the potential of a storm brewing.

“I already told you,” Cas says, his voice low and deadly, his hands deadlier still, “that if you’re going to talk, then I’m going to bite your dick off.”

Thing is, Dean doesn’t doubt it, from the way that Cas is looking at him, but he hasn’t made it this far in life by being timid, and he’s not going to start now.

“Big words for someone who hasn’t even touched my dick yet,” he sneers.

He should have been expecting the shove, but it still takes him by surprise. Dean staggers backwards, his momentum only stopped by the bed hitting the back of his knees. He manages to control his fall so it’s less of an ungainly flail and more of a sprawl, but he doesn’t gather himself in time to stop Castiel from crawling over him.

“This isn’t a great idea,” Dean says, hating himself for it even as the words tumble out of his mouth.

Castiel stops his leisurely ascent. His expression darkens with irritation and he sits down heavily on Dean’s stomach, ignoring Dean’s _oomph_ of protest. “Lucky thing that you’re pretty,” he says. “How many times have I told you not to talk?”

“Because,” Dean says, struggling to push himself up onto his elbows and ignoring the screams of protest from his dick, which is more than happy to rub against the curve of Cas’ ass, “this is a bad idea and you know it. I’m your protection and last time I checked, you weren’t Whitney Houston.”

Cas glares down at him. One of his hands rests against Dean’s sternum, his fingers tapping deliberately against the buttons of Dean’s shirt. “Why are you trying to talk yourself out of this?” He punctuates the question with a deliberate grind of his hips.

“Because,” Dean gasps, trying to recover his missing brain cells. “Because we can’t--my job--”

“Your job is to keep watch over me,” Castiel says smugly as he leans forward. The new position puts his lips tauntingly close to Dean’s mouth. Dean clenches his fists to keep himself from leaning forward to close the gap. “From where I’m sitting, you’re in a perfect position to do just that.”

Dean opens his mouth to make one last argument--something about duty, something about integrity, something about all those things that don’t matter except when you’re faced with something that you desperately want--but Castiel clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Look, this is the way that I see it: you’re infuriating, but you’re gorgeous enough to make up for it. This doesn’t have to be anything else other than what it is--two people trying to work out their frustrations.”

Something uncomfortable twists in Dean’s chest at those words, but he doesn’t stop Cas as he leans forward. This time when Cas’ lips connect, the kiss is hesitant, almost soft, like Castiel is searching for something, and that...That won’t do at all.

Dean’s fingers run through Cas’ hair once more, twisting it as he turns their kiss into something hungrier and a little bit meaner. Judging from the approving moan that Cas lets out, Cas doesn't mind one bit. His hands hold onto Dean’s shoulders as he starts a slow rock against Dean.

Cas makes up for lost time by trailing his lips down Dean’s neck, leaving a trail of sucking kisses in his wake. Under the attention, Dean’s back arches as his hands pull at the hem of Cas’ shirt, tugging it out of the waistband of his pants.

Getting his hands on Cas’ bare skin is a revelation. It’s hot and firm and smooth, and when Dean drags his nails down Cas’ back, the sound that the attorney makes is pure sin.

Not to be outdone, Castiel makes quick work of Dean’s shirt. Before Dean can really process exactly what’s happening, Cas is urging him up so he can slide his shirt off of Dean’s shoulders, along with his jacket and holster. “Jesus,” Cas breathes out in a slow sigh of appreciation. His thumbs land almost accidentally on Dean’s nipples, thumbing at the sensitive flesh until Dean is arching into his touch. When Cas twists the nubs between his thumb and forefinger, Dean can’t hold in his whimper any longer, not that he’d want to, with the way that it lights up Cas’ face.

“You too,” Dean manages, once he regains the power of speech. He clamps his hands on Cas’ waist to stop the filthy grind of the other man’s hips. “It’s not fucking fair.”

“Hasn’t anyone told you Detective?” Cas asks, a hint of the old hardness coming back into his expression. “Life isn’t fair.” He makes no move to do as Dean asked. Instead, he starts fiddling with Dean’s belt, working the leather out of the buckle.

Cas is so intent on his task that he doesn’t notice his tie wrapped around Dean’s fist. He’s only made aware of it when Dean uses his hold to yank Cas forward and off balance. From there, it’s the work of a moment to flip their positions, so that Cas is on his back, staring up at him.

“You want to do this, that’s fine,” Dean snarls. “I’ve got some shit to work out too,” ( _like the fact that Castiel Novak is a maddeningly beautiful man who has a whip for a tongue and an ass that could make the Devil himself cry_ ) “but we’re going to do this my way.”

“Oh Dean.” Castiel somehow still manages to look smug, even as his pupils blow wide. “You’re so butch.”

Cas tries to lean up, but a sharp, warning tug on his tie keeps him immobile. It’s a balm to every bit of his hurt pride as he palms Cas’ erection through his slacks and watches how Cas’ teeth sink into his lower lip. “Not so smug now, are you?” Dean asks, rubbing once more before he starts to work one-handed at the buttons of Cas’ shirt.

“So how did you want to do this?” Cas asks. For someone whose tie is wrapped around another man’s fist and whose shirt is hanging open, he manages to sound remarkably unaffected. Only the hitch in his breathing gives him away.

“You’re letting me have a choice?” Dean mutters. Cas grins up at him, one hand coming to wrap around his wrist. Cas doesn’t try to pull his hand away from his tie; instead, he just runs his thumb over Dean’s pulse in what would be considered soothing strokes, if it weren’t for the shit-eating grin on his face.

And that’s what decides it. “Wanna fuck you.” Dean uses his grip on Cas’ tie to pull him up, claiming his lips in a brutal kiss. Cas moans into it, tongue eagerly tangling with his. “You gonna let me fuck you Cas?”

Cas’ eyes sparkle. “I let you choose, didn’t I?”

They lose their shoes and socks, then their pants and boxers. Dean’s not really aware of the layers peeling away from his body; he’s more interested in how Cas’ mouth moves against his bare shoulder or how Cas’ hands push and pull at his body. He lets himself fall into the sweet slide of skin on skin, or the way that Cas’ cock curves, hard and leaking, against his stomach.

There’s so much that he wants to do--his mouth waters with the need to wrap around Cas’ cock and take him down all the way to the root just to hear the sweet little sounds that he knows Cas would make. He wants to spread Cas’ thighs apart and lick him open, not stop until Cas is dripping and trembling and loose enough that he can just slide right in--But those are things to be done amongst lovers, not...whatever the hell they are.

Cas wanted quick and dirty, so he’ll get quick and dirty.

Dean accepts the condoms and bottle of lube that Cas presses into his hands. Shaking it, he smirks when he discovers that the bottle is almost full.

“I work long hours,” Cas defends, obviously seeing where Dean’s mind went. “It’s hard to have a personal life--” His defense is cut off with a soft sigh as Dean rubs one slicked finger against his hole.

“No judgement here,” he says, pressing in to the first knuckle. Cas relaxes into the touch, eyes drifting shut as he sighs in satisfaction.

Dean bites back a groan. Cas is hot and inviting around him, muscles clenching hungrily around Dean’s fingers. It’s not long before Dean works three into Cas with a steady rhythm, brushing just past his prostate.

Cas pants as a thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead. “Damn you, stop teasing,” he finally grits out. He shifts his hips to get more of Dean’s touch where he wants it, but it’s laughably easy for Dean to pin Cas’ hips down to the bed. Just to be an asshole, he does press against the sensitive gland, enough to have Cas’ eyes snap open and stare sightlessly ahead as a low cry escapes him.

“Think I could make you come like this?” Dean asks, thrusting shallowly into Cas. It’s not enough to give Cas the release he’s looking for, and Dean can see rebellion gathering in Cas’ dark glower. “Just my fingers inside you?” He licks his fingers and wraps them around Cas’ cock in a loose grip. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”

“Keep pushing, Detective.” How can Cas keep up that condescending tone when Dean is three fingers deep into him? He twists his fingers to press mercilessly on Cas’ prostate and it’s music to his ears to hear Cas’ harsh, choked off curse as his hips buck helplessly. When he subsides, he glares at Dean. “Just remember, whatever you give to me, I’ll give back to you, three fold.”

A thrill of delight chases through Dean at the implication-- _this isn’t the only time that Cas wants to do this_ \--but he pushes it back. He can tell that Cas is growing frustrated with all the teasing and, truth be told, his own dick is growing pretty damn hard to ignore as well.

He pulls his fingers out of Cas, ignoring the soft grunt of unhappiness. He wipes them clean on the comforter and tries not to look at how Cas’ rim, puffy and slick, clenches around nothing. He’s unsuccessful and fumbles opening the condom, his fingers slipping along the foil wrapper.

“Jesus,” Cas growls. Dean doesn’t recognize the danger until it’s too late--Cas’ knee comes up to knock against his side, sending him sprawling. From there, Cas clambers overtop him to settle into his lap. He takes the condom out of Dean’s hands and slides it on him in a swift, practiced movement. Even that short touch is enough to make Dean hiss in a short breath through his teeth. It’s worse when Cas wraps his fingers around Dean’s cock in a loose grip, lube slick fingers trailing over him.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, his hands cupping Cas’ hips. He tries not to notice how the span of Cas’ pelvis fits seamlessly into his hands or how his thumbs fit perfectly into the grooves above the sharp jut of Cas’ hipbones. “Fuck Cas, come on.”

“Pushy, pushy,” Cas chides, lifting himself up. His touches along Dean’s cock are soft and purposeful as he lines himself up. Dean feels the hot pressure squeezing along his tip, the resistance of another body before Cas rolls his hips. Dean slides into him in a long, slow drag that makes the breath catch in his chest and his eyes roll back.

Dean’s hands clamp on hard to Cas’ hips as he takes a second to adjust to the _hottightsqueezeholyshit_ feeling of being in someone. Above him, Cas’ eyes flutter shut as a lazy, pleased smile spreads across his face. “Cas,” Dean urges, his desire turning jagged and urgent, “Cas, come on--”

Cas’ eyes open and Dean takes a moment to appreciate that his normally sharp gaze has turned hazy and indulgent. “Problem Detective?” Cas asks, and he might even sound blase about it, were it not for the quick rise and fall of his chest and the uneven bobs of his throat.

Dean plants his feet on the mattress and rolls his hips up, holding Cas in place. It’s music to his ears, how Cas’ mouth falls open and a soft exhalation leaves his lips. So he does it again, this time with a little more force behind it, and again, until he’s built up a steady rhythm.

And then Cas changes it, because Cas always has to have his own way--Cas starts moving with him, lifting his hips up as Dean pulls away, then slamming his hips back down as Dean pushes up. The room fills with the sound of slick flesh slapping together, the sound of their panting and moans.

They haven’t been at this long and Dean already knows that it’s going to be over in an embarrassingly short amount of time. It’s not his fault--Cas is like a wild thing atop him, lip curled in a grimace as he reaches behind him, using Dean’s thighs for balance as he writhes above him. Short exhalations and grunts escape through his gritted teeth as he throws his head back.

“Shit,” Dean moans, planting his feet flat on the mattress for leverage. “Aw, fuck Cas.”

Even as he feels the heat boiling in his gut, Dean knows that it’s not enough for either of them to reach that precipe. Without giving the game away, he wraps his arms around Cas’ shoulders, pulling him down close to his chest. Cas goes willingly, his hips bucking back into Dean as he smears his cock all over Dean’s stomach.

“I’ve got you baby,” Dean mutters, taking a moment to angle Cas’ head so that he can find his mouth. He kisses Cas, flicks his tongue into his mouth to taste the salt and desperation of him. “Trust me, I’ve got you.”

“Dean,” Cas replies, his voice rough and fucked out, too lost in the moment to pretend to be anything else. “Ah shit, Dean, please.”

“Gonna make it good,” Dean promises, tightening his arms around Cas’ shoulders. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, meaningless platitudes rolling out of his mouth without his permission. “Make it so good for you Cas, fuck, you’re so good for me…”

Dean gathers enough momentum to roll them and then he’s looking down at Cas. His dark hair spreads across the sheets and there’s a faint flush dappling his shoulders and cheeks. He’s lovely, heart-breakingly so, and Dean ducks his head down into the crook of Cas’ shoulder so he doesn’t have to look. He kisses at the sweaty skin, licking it and worrying the skin between his teeth until Cas is whining and squirming underneath him. Dean could stay like this forever, his hips rolling into Cas’ body, surrounded by the scent and feel of _Cas_ around him, but Cas has other plans. His hips shift restlessly under Dean’s and eventually he’s panting, “Move Dean, move, move, please, move.”

Dean rears back onto his knees. He hikes Cas’ legs up, knees over his elbows, and shifts closer. All of his motions are rote, things that he’s done before with other partners. He knows the moves of this particular dance, knows how to make the person underneath him melt with pleasure. It’s something that he’s done a million times before, nothing different.

He makes the mistake of looking at Cas’ face.

Cas grins up at him, smug and satisfied and overwhelmed. One hand lays curled on the sheets next to his head, while the other comes up to curve around Dean’s neck. “What are you waiting for, Detective?” he asks. There’s a bite on the word _Detective_ , a little spur in his side.

Dean can’t help but grin back, smug and cocky, as he thrusts deliberately into Cas. It’s enough to make Cas’ eyes roll and his mouth drop open in artless pleasure. “Told you didn’t I?” Dean asks, drawing back almost all the way before pushing in again, harsh and unrelenting. “Told you that I was going to take good care of you.”

“Then do it already,” Cas groans. The hand beside his head forms into a fist as Dean quickens his pace into something almost punishing. “Don’t be all talk and no, _ah_!”

Cas’ goading stops once Dean closes his fist around his cock. From there it’s a race--Dean jacking Cas in uneven thrusts as he pounds into him hard enough to send Cas sliding across the sheets. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Cas pants, twisting his fingers in the sheets. He digs his fingernails into the back of Dean’s neck, scoring bright red furrows into the skin.

“You gonna come for me?” Dean asks. “Gonna let me see it? Come on, come for me Cas.”

They’re both racing towards the inevitable, heat pooling and spilling through Dean’s body, all concentrated on the places where his body touches Cas’. He’s close, so close, so it’s a relief when Cas tenses underneath him, back arching and muscles tightening, before he spills over his stomach.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. He doesn’t stop stroking Cas even as his hips lose their rhythm in a mindless rut for release. “Oh fuck, oh Cas.”

“That’s it,” Cas breathes. His body is pliant in the aftershocks, the heel of his foot knocking against Dean’s ribs. “Come on, Detective.”

It’s that little bit of snap that he puts on the word _Detective_ , that hint of a sneer, that sends Dean over the edge. He thrusts sloppily into Cas’ body, riding out the waves of his orgasm until he’s trembling with oversensitivity.

He pulls out of Cas and it takes everything in him not to collapse directly on top of the other man. Instead, Dean manages to go down on one elbow, pulling away from Cas’ body. His skin mourns the contact, but Dean tells himself that it’s for the best. Just two people, blowing off steam. There’s no reason to make this anything more than what it is.

Cas rolls onto his side to face Dean. Most of his face is hidden in his arm, but Dean can spy a small sliver of blue where Cas looks at him. “Penny for your thoughts?” Castiel asks, after a long moment passes.

Dean runs his fingers through his hair. The lightness of euphoria is gone, to be replaced by the heaviness of responsibility. “It’s just...I don’t do this often,” Dean says.

“Sex? Or sex with someone that you work with?”

“It’s been a while for either,” Dean admits, flopping onto his back. “I just…” he scratches idly at his stomach and very chivalrously does not make a face at the mess he finds there. “It could mean my job if word got out about this.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Cas’ voice is already thick with impending sleep. “Haven’t you ever read of attorney-client privilege?”

Dean dares to glance at Castiel. The other man smiles easily enough, but while Dean wasn’t looking, the tightness around his eyes returned. “What I’m saying is, I can keep a secret as long as you can.”

Something complicated passes over Cas’ face then and maybe if he wasn’t sex-stupid, then Dean would be able to catalogue the various emotions. As it is, he’s barely capable of keeping his eyes open, despite the fact that he knows that Jo will be here to replace him in less than 45 minutes. So he does the easy thing and agrees with Cas. It’ll cause less problems in the long run.

“Sure thing.” Dean sits up, ignoring the pang from muscles that haven’t been exercised in a while. “I need to get ready for Jo’s shift.” He starts the process of gathering his clothes together. All the while, he’s aware of Cas’ eyes on him.

“Of course.” The air is thick with words unsaid. They crowd onto Dean’s tongue-- But he already knows that he doesn’t want to hear the answers. So he keeps his mouth shut and swipes a few tissues from Castiel’s bedside table to wipe himself somewhat clean. He dresses as quickly as he can, facing away from Cas. Whatever expression is on Cas’ face at the moment, he doesn’t want to see it.

“Jo will be here in a few minutes,” Dean says, once he’s fully dressed. He knots his tie and, now that there are no other excuses not to, turns to look at Cas. “And I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Whatever he’d hoped to see in Cas’ face, he doesn’t find it. Cas’ face is blank. Only his eyes give away any hint that there’s more going on underneath the surface. “Of course Dean,” is all Cas says. One finger traces an abstract pattern on the comforter.

And if Dean were in full control of his faculties, he wouldn’t move forward. If he had any kind of discipline, then he wouldn’t have kissed Castiel to begin with. But it’s a little too late to fix any of that, which is maybe why he doesn’t stop himself from leaning over the bed and carding one hand through Cas’ hair. Gentle pressure from his thumb urges Cas’ head to tilt upwards and for once, Cas doesn’t fight him.

This time when Dean kisses Cas, it’s soft and almost sweet. Cas hums into his mouth and if they were anyone else in any other circumstance, Dean would swear that Cas’ lips curve in a smile against his.

He pulls away even though his fingertips long for the feel of Cas’ stubble. He forces himself to take one step, then another towards the door. Cas lounges on his bed, watching his movements with heavy eyes.

“Goodnight Dean,” and the farewell nestles in close to Dean's chest, giving off more warmth than any goodbye has a right to.

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	6. three can keep a secret if

~*~*~*~*~*~*

True to form, Charlie calls him the next morning, when he’s settling into his desk with his favorite work mug. Dean answers, his heart jumping with the small hope that just maybe she’s managed to dig up something on Kevin Tran. 

She answers his casual greeting by saying, “So you know that there are cameras in Novak’s kitchen, right?” 

For a second, the world freezes. That’s just before the bottom drops out of it, leaving Dean in freefall. 

He’s fucked. He’s so _fucked_. He’s caught on camera, being fucked. 

He doesn’t drop his mug. He’s proud of at least that. 

“Unclench,” Charlie says, her voice sounding tinny and distant on the other end of the line. “You’re lucky that we can’t afford 24/7 surveillance and luckier still that I’m the schmuck who gets to watch the tapes speed by at 16x in the morning.” 

Dean still can’t manage to get enough oxygen in his lungs. It takes three repetitions of Charlie saying, “Breathe,” before the instructions make it through his head. This time, instead of sounding maliciously amused, Charlie just sounds worried. “Seriously there. You ok?” 

“I’m fine,” Dean says, his voice faint and forced. 

“Yeah.” Charlie sounds skeptical but she at least does him the kindness of not directly calling him a liar. “Look, I’m not saying that I loved watching you rounding second with our favorite District Attorney, but I scrubbed the footage. No one’s ever going to know about it except for you, me, and Novak.” 

For the first time since she called, Dean’s lungs work properly. He inhales and exhales and the world starts to make sense again. “It’s nothing,” he says automatically. “One time thing.” 

“Whatever you say.” Charlie slurps at something--could be coffee. Could be an energy drink. Who knows. “I should be thanking you for the entertainment, cringe-worthy as it was. There’s been nothing on the feed. Just you and Novak coming in the evenings, you leaving, Jo coming in, Novak waking up. Rinse and repeat. There’s a guy from the office who comes by every once in a while to drop off stuff from Novak’s office. I think he’s picked up a few bags out of Novak’s room.” Dean hears the sounds of Charlie’s chair wheeling around her office. “Look, don’t be pissed off when I say this, but are you sure that there’s a real threat here? I just...I would have expected something by now. A break-in attempt, someone hacking at the security...something. Four people have been in and out of that house in all the time that I’ve been watching and two of them work for us.” 

Dean frowns. It’s not her fault that Charlie says what he’s heard others whisper around the precinct: there is no threat to Novak, Bobby’s just wasting money and manpower on a babysitting gig. He’s even heard it whispered around the D.A.'s office--not in so many words, but there are the sidelong glances, the sanctimonious little smiles. Hell--Bobby told him that even Zachariah Adler, District Attorney himself, had delicately hinted that perhaps a constant police presence was not needed any longer. 

They’re still in charge of the investigation, but without any leads, Dean doesn't know for how much longer. But at the moment, he’s got bigger fish to fry. 

“I’m not mad,” he assures Charlie. “And I meant it. It’s just a one-time thing. It was stupid as fuck of me,” he sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “I just...Well hell.” He laughs. “You’ve seen him.”

“Dean, trust me when I say that I’m not interested in anything that he’s packing and I still think that he’s hot. You poor little disaster bisexual, you had no chance at all being thrown into the lion’s den.” Charlie clacks away a few keys. “You know your secret dies with me. I’m the only one who’s looking at this footage, so you don’t need to worry about anything. Though I will ask that you keep your horniness to the bedroom. There aren’t any cameras in there and I really don’t need to be seeing much of either of you in the biblical sense.” 

“I don’t deserve you,” Dean breathes. Jesus. It worked out. Somehow, the shittiness of his life worked out in his favor. For once. 

“No you don’t.” Charlie snaps her gum aggressively in his ear. “You owe me one weekend. No outside engagements. I find that I’m in need of a new handmaiden.” 

“You’ve got it kiddo.” For this, Dean would give a kidney. 

Well maybe not a kidney. But he’d definitely at least mow a lawn or something. A weekend spent LARPing (which he enjoys anyway, not that anyone other than himself and Charlie need to know that tidbit) is a small price to pay for Charlie covering up his poorly made dick-decisions. 

“Happy hunting!” Charlie bids, before she hangs up. 

\---

And after that, it’s weird. 

Not bad weird, not really good weird, just...weird. 

Dean’s sure that Hannah notices the calming of Castiel’s temper as they approach the trial. Gone are the days of raised voices and slammed doors. It’s a quieter, more contemplative Castiel who greets Dean every day at the office. His eyes rest a little too heavily on Dean and follow him through the office. It’s almost to the point that Dean wants to say something about it, but he doesn’t want to risk bringing even more attention to Cas’ behavior. 

Jo and Benny suspect something. He’s been friends with them for too long for them to do otherwise. He waits for the ambush but either they take pity on him or, as is more than likely, they’re just too busy with their own shit to worry about something that isn’t immediately affecting either them or the job. 

No doubt Hannah could give them some insight--she’s sure to notice how close Castiel stands to him. Possibly how Dean forget himself for a moment and almost reached out to fix a stray strand of Cas’ hair. Most definitely how close Cas sits to him now when they take their customary evening meal. But Hannah keeps to herself and never says anything, though there is a look in her eyes when she glances at Dean--something threatening, that Dean never would have expected to see from her. _Be careful with him_ , she says, without words, and Dean never bothers to tell her that it’s not Castiel that she should fear for. 

Sam manages to guess within ten minutes of their next conversation. He’s been with Dean through too much and too long to ever be fooled by any of Dean’s bullshit. 

“What the hell?” he snaps, at Dean’s sheepish silence to the question, _“So how are things going with Novak?”_

“What do you mean what the hell?” Dean asks, his own irritation rising in the face of Sam’s anger. 

“I mean...I mean, what the _hell_? Don’t you ever think with anything other than your dick?” 

“You know what, fuck you Sam.” There might be truth in Sam’s words, but damned if Dean is going to admit that. There’s so much more involved with Cas than just his dick although, he’s not going to lie, that does do a fair bit of the thinking. 

But he’ll defy Sam or anyone else to spend a few weeks with Castiel Novak and not end up at least a little bit under his spell. 

After a long pause Sam apologizes. “That sounded a lot worse than I meant it to.” Dean waits, not willing to let his brother off the hook so easily. It was a dick thing that Sam said and he deserves to twist on the hook for it a little bit more. With a little finesse, Dean can get some grade-A groveling out of him. 

“Look, I’m just worried.” Dean can picture the look on Sam’s face now--the artfully furrowed brow, the soft eyes, the slight downturn to his lips. Perhaps his eyes are even welling over with unshed tears. It’s unlikely but Dean can picture it. 

“It’s not like I planned it,” Dean finally says. He doesn’t consider that Sam might find this worse. “And it doesn’t follow us out of the house.” Which is a lie, because Dean’s _felt_ Castiel’s eyes on him. “And it’s not going to interfere with the job at all.” That he can say with a hundred percent honesty: it’s very easy to protect Castiel when he’s spending almost every moment with him. 

“Dean,” Sam says carefully after a long pause. “Do you maybe want this to continue after the job is over?”

Dean flushes as he thinks about it--picking up dinner after his shift and heading over to Cas’ place for dinner. Putting Cas’ feet in his lap and feeding each other little tidbits from dinner. Being able to undress Cas and take him apart at his leisure and afterward, be able to relax in bed with him. Be able to wrap his arms around his form and sleep and not have to worry about scampering out of bed to avoid Jo’s suspicion…

“It’s not like that Sam.” Dean’s voice is a little too harsh but he needs to scour his brain of those images. “It’s just two people with high stress jobs blowing off steam. That’s all that either of us wants.” He ignores how the words taste like ash in his mouth. 

Sam does him the favor of not pushing even though Dean knows that he must be dying to. “Anyway, I know that you didn’t call me to wail about your love life, so what’s up?”

Dean rolls a pencil around on his counter. “Ah, that’s not fair Sammy. Why must you always assume that I need something?” 

Dean can _feel_ the force of Sam’s rolled eyes from miles away. “Shut up. What do you want, jerk?” 

Dean glances down at the file open in the front of him, the one that’s been haunting his every waking moment for at least two weeks. “Looking for this high school kid named Kevin Tran. He went missing a few months ago, along with his mom, after he had a run-in with Dick Roman and this Edgar character. I’ve had Charlie trying to track his movements, but he’s smart--he’s gone almost entirely off the grid.”

“He’s so off the grid that Charlie can’t find him? And he’s in _high school_?”

“He’s in Advanced Placement.” Dean rubs at his temples. The low grade headache comes back, the one that seems to appear every time that Kevin Tran’s name shimmers into view in front of him. “I thought that maybe you might have some insights as to how he thinks, being that you were a high school nerd.” 

Sam laughs. “Dean, if Charlie can’t find this kid, there’s no way in hell that I could--” He stops laughing as he realizes that Dean isn’t joking. “What, you want me to profile this kid?” 

“Can you do that?” Dean’s never paid much attention to the psycho-babble of the thousand quacks that rush through the precinct. Sam on the hand...He'd trust Sam. 

“Yeah sure. With my degree in Psychology and my expertise in profiling and teenagers. Let me get right on that.” Sam sounds beyond sour, which is understandable because this isn’t his job, but Dean thinks that he could be a little more accommodating. He mentions this, and Sam loses his pissy tone. 

“Look. I don’t know where this kid is, but if he’s anything like me, I’d bet that he’s not far from this whole trial. If Dick Roman and Edgar really did burn his whole life, he’d want to stay close by to keep an eye on the trial. It’s not going to be enough for him to watch from far away; plus you said that he didn’t have a big online presence. No, I’d be willing to bet that he’s lurking right around in Lawrence.” 

It’s not like Dean hasn’t considered it--After all, if everyone is searching far and wide for you, what better choice than to go to ground minutes from ground zero? It’s the last place that anyone would expect to find you. But what he hadn’t considered was that Kevin would be following the trial with all the passion of...well...maybe Castiel Novak.

“So you think if I troll around the courthouse and the people who are following the trial, I might be able to nab this kid?” 

“Don’t quote me on this; I’m not a professional,” Sam cautions. “But yeah. If I were in his shoes, that’s what’d I do.” 

“All right. All right. Cool. Awesome. Thanks.” Dean finishes the call with Sam, his mind already a thousand miles away. He’s not sure of what Sam says, probably something typically ball-busting and Sam-like. He’s too busy coming up with tactics of how to flush Kevin Tran out of hiding. 

His mind is still working overtime as he leaves for his shift that afternoon and all through his time at Castiel’s office. He knows that he’s not devoting his full attention to his job, just skimming the scenery instead of inspecting it like he should be doing, but he’s twisted up in figuring out how he can lure Kevin Tran to the trial. 

This whole thing hinges around Kevin Tran--the trial, Edgar, Dick Roman--Dean feels it deep in his gut. If he finds Kevin Tran then he can cut through this Gordian Knot surrounding Castiel Novak. 

And that will be good because…

“Dean.” Only a sharp tug to the hair at the crown of his head manages to snag his attention. Dean bites back a snarled curse as he turns to look at Castiel. 

Castiel, who’s half naked and looking at him through half-amused, half-incredulous eyes. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now. You’ve been elsewhere all day. What’s going on?” 

Dean shakes off Cas’ hand, though he can’t manage to take his eyes off Cas’ chest. All that skin is laid out before him like a feast and it’s enough to make his mouth water. There’s a freckle, low on Cas’ chest, in the vicinity of his right nipple, that looks like it’s mocking him specifically every time Cas breathes, in and out. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says. Truth be told, he’s not sure how he ended up in Cas’ bedroom with him, other than it’s just become some sort of routine by this point. _Blowing off steam_ , Cas had said, and Dean agreed, and like he’d told Sam--there was a lot of steam to blow off. Dean is now well-acquainted with the sounds that Cas makes as he’s being fucked, as well as the sounds Cas makes while he’s getting blown--he’s even come to know the sound of Cas’ low chuckles as he uses those damnable, long, elegant fingers to drive Dean to distraction. 

“That’s not very convincing,” Cas says, and though his voice is light, there’s a warning in the words that reminds Dean of just how stubborn Cas is. 

“It’s not your problem,” and Dean doesn’t mean to snap, but he does. The sound echoes around the room, ricocheting off the windows and walls until it slams back into them. 

When he got into these moods, Lisa would withdraw and leave him alone to sulk and stew in his own juices. Mostly, it was the right call. But sometimes, Dean just desperately wished that she would have braved the storm and stayed. 

Cas never blinks. He just draws his knees up in one smooth motion so that he’s sitting cross-legged and puts his knees on his elbows. He rests his chin on his clasped hands and looks like nothing so much as a child waiting for a story. 

“Tell me anyway,” Castiel asks, and for whatever reason, Dean does. 

It all comes pouring out of him--Kevin and Linda Tran, his suspicions about how they’re connected to Roman and Edgar, his theories about how to find the Trans. Somehow that spirals and before he knows it, Dean’s talking about other shit, shit that he never wanted to bring up to anyone, least of all Cas Novak. 

He winds up talking about Sam and how proud he is that his baby brother made it to Stanford on a full ride. How _thrilled_ he was when Sam chose to turn down the headhunters in California and come back home to Kansas for a job. How badly he’d hoped that Sam would take a job with the District Attorney in Lawrence so it would be like they were still in the same fight together, like they’d been for all their lives. 

“And Dad, he was…” Dean swallows and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s been pouring out his life story to Cas. And that Cas hasn’t interrupted, or given him the cold shoulder or worse, the pitying looks that so many give him when they figure out just the kind of hell that his childhood was. 

“You don’t give a shit,” Dean says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 

“Who says?” 

Castiel’s eyes are focused, not glazed over like how Dean would expect. He’s still listening with as much interest as he was at the beginning. It’s not ghoulish, Castiel’s attention, not the gossip-mongering that Dean’s feared all his life. Instead it’s curious and oddly kind. 

“Because,” Dean says, dropping his eyes to examine the bedspread. It’s easier than looking at Cas. “It’s just another story of a shitty, fucked-up childhood. You hear hundreds of them a day, same as I do.” 

“Then you know that each one matters,” Castiel says, in that low soothing voice that washes over Dean like the sweetest honey. “A hundred stories and each of them matters. Not the least yours.” 

“Sorry Cas,” Dean mutters, feeling suddenly very, very tired, “but I think you’ve got to be at least a Level Three Friend before you get the whole of my shitty childhood.” 

Cas doesn’t say anything to that for a long while, long enough that Dean actually starts to feel bad about what he said. Then, somehow, Cas is behind him, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt with a level of dexterity that Dean doubts he would possess if he were trying to undo someone else’s buttons from behind. 

“Look, maybe childhood trauma gets you hot, but I’m really not in the mood right now,” Dean mutters. He doesn’t make any move to bat Cas’ hands away. 

“Oh Dean,” Cas sighs. There’s something weary in his voice. “Always willing to accept the worst of me.” He continues unbuttoning Dean’s shirt, but there’s nothing seductive about his motions. “I just think that you could stand to have a little rest, is all.” 

Dean glances at the clock. “Three more hours on shift and then I'm home for my usual four hours.” 

Cas doesn’t answer as he slides Dean’s shirt off his shoulders. “You’re exhausted. Your brain’s been moving at a thousand miles an hour for most of the day. You need a rest now.” 

Cas sounds so reasonable and Dean’s already so fatigued that he can’t think of any argument. Cas’ fingers drift over his shoulders, ghosting over the knots of tension buried beneath the skin, before he hesitantly cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. 

Under the soft touches, Dean feels himself collapsing. He only barely hears Cas’ voice telling him to set an alarm. “You’ll want to be awake before Joanna Beth comes for her shift,” Cas tells him. 

There’s something in his voice that Dean should pay attention to, some warning, some hint that something isn’t right, but he’s already so goddamn tired. He punches in an alarm for 11:30 into his phone and tosses it on the bed beside him. 

Hands guide him down onto the bed. The last thing he’s aware of is the gentle tug of his shoes being guided off of his feet. Soft fingertips sweep over his ankles, but by then, Dean is too far gone to protest. 

\---

Dean wakes to the sound of his voice hissed in a dark room. 

His eyes snap open. Adrenaline floods his body when he doesn’t immediately recognize his surroundings and he’s seconds away from fighting his way out of this situation when his rational brain kicks in. 

He recognizes the voice calling his name. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t make the situation any better. 

Jo’s whispering to him from the doorway of Cas’ bedroom, her figure silhouetted by the hall light outside. Dean can’t make out the expression on her face, which is probably a good thing. He’s barefoot and bare chested, in Castiel Novak’s bed. Most damning of all, the man in question is curled around him, one hand resting possessively on Dean’s chest. 

“Dean, get the hell up!” 

Dean wordlessly slides out from under Cas’ arm. Cas is a heavy sleeper, so he doesn’t wake when Dean extricates himself from his grasp, though he does let out a small, unhappy whimper. Dean ignores it as he gathers his clothes from around the bed and pads out of the room. 

He looks back when he goes to close the door. The light from the hallway illuminates Cas’ bare torso and the way that his hand reaches out to the warm spot that Dean just vacated. Something hot and painful twists in Dean’s chest at the sight. He closes the bedroom door before he can think too much about it. 

Waiting on the other side of that door is a very confused, very pissed, Joanna Beth Harvelle. 

“Dean, what the hell?” she asks, keeping her voice pitched at a whisper. Her eyes dart towards Cas’ door, leaving no doubt as to what she’s referring to. Still, Jo hates ambiguity in all forms. “The hell are you doing cuddling up to your protectee?” 

“Can we have this conversation somewhere else?” Dean tries not to feel embarrassed about the fact that he’s clutching his clothes to his chest like a frat boy getting ready to perform the walk of shame. “And can I be a little more clothed?” 

Any other time he would either be amused or indignant by the way that Jo immediately dismisses his half-clothed state. Now, he’s irritated by the fact that his nipples are pebbling up in the cool air. 

“Whatever.” Jo stalks out to the kitchen. A low noise tells Dean that she’s taking advantage of Cas’ cups. When he shrugs back into his shirt and toes back on his shoes, she’s sipping belligerently from a novelty cup that has a grinning bee on it and proclaims, _Gotta get a BUZZ_! 

Cas is so fucking weird. 

He’d hoped that Jo would have taken a little second to calm down, but her eyes are still squinty and judgmental. “The hell are you thinking?” she asks the second he steps foot into the kitchen. “You realize that you could lose your job over this, right?” 

“That thought had crossed my mind,” Dean admits. He doesn’t want to shuffle his feet like a recalcitrant schoolboy, but something in Jo’s withering gaze makes him cast his gaze downwards. 

“And what? You decided that it was worth it?”

“Kind of.” 

At Jo’s silence, Dean dares to look up. She’s still furious--she’s practically vibrating with repressed anger--but for the first time, Dean thinks that maybe she’s not angry _at_ him, but rather _for_ him. “Dean, you know that I love you like a brother…” Jo sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “And you know that I’m not going to say anything to get you in trouble. But if this is what you’re going to do, you’ve got to be careful about it. I know that Bobby’s got a soft spot for you a mile wide, but even he can’t protect you from this.” 

Tenderness so bright that it hurts washes through Dean. Even though Jo snarls and pushes at him, it doesn’t stop him from wrapping his around her and lifting her off the ground in a bearhug. “Put me down you asshole,” she hisses, pinching mercilessly at his neck and arms until he puts her back on the ground. “It’s only because I think you’ll be a bit more fun if you get laid a little more,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest, defying him to say anything else. 

“Well, I’ve gotten plenty this week,” Dean leers, the knot of tension unclenching in his chest. “How do you think I’ve been?”

“As disgusting as ever.” Jo rolls her eyes. “Also, not to mention, you’re going to owe me, like, so many favors. You’re not going to be able to count the favors that you owe me. And if I ever come in and see your bare ass doing anything, then I’m just going to spray it. Like a cat in heat.” Jo glowers at him over the rim of her cup. “And I don’t want to hear anything weird either. Novak’s hot, but now that I know you’re there, it’s just going to make me ill.” 

Jo rambles on but all Dean can hear is the sweet sound of relief, relief, relief. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	7. the fall

~*~*~*~*~*~*

The trial is two days away. Both Dean and Castiel are wound tight to bursting with it. 

He’s been lurking around the courthouse on his off-shifts, trying to spy Kevin Tran’s face in the crowds. He’s attended every one of Dick Roman's press conferences, searching for Kevin's face in the crowds. He sees the Trans when he’s walking down the street, on his breaks, while he’s getting lunch. He’s even starting to dream about them. 

The only time that he doesn’t think about them is when he’s with Cas. 

Cas demands his full attention and will accept nothing less. With sharp, sucking kisses and harsh nips, he drags Dean’s focus back to him. Dean looks down the length of his body to where Cas is splayed between his legs. “You’re not paying attention,” Cas chides, digging his fingernails into the soft skin of Dean’s inner thighs. 

Dean flexes into the pain, his head dropping back onto the mattress. “Shit Cas,” he groans, tensing as Cas’ warm breath ghosts over the head of his cock. “Keep doing that and you’re going to have my undivided attention.” 

He doesn’t have to see Cas’ face to picture the smug little smirk flitting over his lips. But any frustration or irritation that he might have felt from that is rendered moot when Cas closes his mouth over him. 

It’s not the first time that he’s had Cas’ mouth on him, but it’s a revelation every time. Cas sucks dick like he does everything else--that is to say, with his full focus and skill. There’s not a single part of him that he doesn’t devote to the cause--his head bobs up and down, the warm clutch of his throat flirting with the head of Dean’s dick, his hand rubbing at the base where his mouth doesn’t quite reach, his other hand gently rolling his balls. Cas sucks cock like it’s what he was made for and for Dean on the receiving end, it’s a goddamn religious experience. 

Even better is when Cas’ hand leaves the base of his dick. A moment later, Dean hears the slick, wet sounds of Cas jacking off. He can feel Cas’ moans reverberate around him, but it’s the knowledge of Cas’ enthusiasm, the pleasure that he gets from sucking Dean, that has Dean close to coming. 

Dean can’t help but reach out to hold Cas’ head in his hands. Not pushing, not even guiding, just holding on. His thumbs sweep over the baby-fine hairs near Cas’ ears as his hips start to thrust into the warm cavern of Cas’ mouth. 

“Shit,” Dean groans, his thighs tensing and trembling. Cas slides his hand down from his balls to press a knuckle against Dean’s perineum. Dean groans with the added stimulation, feeling his orgasm barrel at him like a freight train. “Fuck, Cas, your _mouth_.” 

Cas moans around him and the sounds of flesh on flesh increase--Cas is getting off on this, getting off on getting him off, and that’s just--

“Cas, gonna,” is all that Dean manages, along with a weak little tug at Cas’ hair that the other man ignores. Cas just doubles down, giving one hard suck to the head while he flicks the tip of his tongue against the slit and then Dean is _gone_ , muscles tensing and toes curling as he comes into the welcoming heat of Cas’ mouth. His hands hold Cas’ head steady as curses and praise spill from his lips. Cas continues to work over him until Dean’s trembling and whimpering with overstimulation. When it gets to be too much, Dean tugs at Cas’ hair, pulling him up so he can get a look at Cas’ glazed eyes and his swollen mouth, and so that he can hear the soft, desperate whines falling from Cas’ mouth. 

“Fuck yeah Cas, you gonna come just from that? Just from sucking me off?” Dean cards his hands through Cas’ hair, thumbing away at a stray tear lurking just on his eyelashes. “Come for me sweetheart, wanna see it.” 

Cas groans, low and fierce. His hand is a swift blur over his cock, all hope at finesse disappeared. Mere moments later, warmth splashes over onto Dean’s calf. Dean talks Cas through the aftershocks, soothing and praising, until Cas pitches forward, his forehead resting on Dean’s stomach. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, after he manages to gather his thoughts together. “Fuck, you’re hot.” 

Cas hums in agreement before he looks up at Dean. A small, goofy smile lurks in his eyes. For a moment, Dean is worried that he’ll open his mouth and ruin the mood. But then Cas just ducks his head, hiding that small, private quirk of his lips as he slumps into the mattress. 

Which isn’t to say that they don’t talk. 

Now that Jo knows and there’s no reason to rush out of bed, Dean doesn’t feel any guilt in stretching out and enjoying himself. It’s been a long time since Lisa and even though he’ll never admit it, he’s missed having a warm body in bed with him. It’s not his warm body to claim, hell, it’s not even his bed, but he’s lived on scraps his whole life. He’ll take what he can get. 

He’s lounging in bed, on his back. Next to him, Cas is on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms. Dean draws idle designs over Cas’ spine, indulging himself at the resulting shivers that follow. “So why a cop?” Cas asks, his voice thick with sleep and the laziness that comes after a good orgasm. 

Dean stiffens, but the question isn’t leading or mocking. No, Cas sounds like he genuinely wants to know. “It’s kind of the family business,” Dean answers. He might press a little harder into Cas’ skin, but he doesn’t give any other indications to his distress. “Sam and I were expected to pick it up after high school. I did. Sam didn’t.” 

Cas pauses before he asks the next question, a little more delicately. “That caused friction between you and your father?” 

Dean’s fingertips press a little harder. “Yeah. He blamed me when Sam said that he was going into law. Blamed me more when Sam dropped the Stanford bombshell. He said that if I’d been better that Sam wouldn’t have chosen to leave.” Dean chuckles mirthlessly. He doesn’t realize that his fingertips have stalled until he clenches his fist on the warm skin of Cas’ back. “The kicker of it? Once Sam came back to Kansas, Dad never said one fucking word to him about, not until he died. I don’t think he ever forgave me for Sam leaving in the first place.” 

His breath is coming in harsh, quick pants, but it’s not until Cas’ hand smoothes over his chest that he realizes it. Cas props himself up on an elbow as he looks over at Dean. His hand works in small circles over Dean’s chest, thumb rubbing soothingly over his heart. 

“That wasn’t fair,” Cas says, his eyes dark and serious. 

Which, Dean’s always known that it wasn’t fair, but there's a difference between knowing it and hearing it confirmed. “It wasn’t fair for him to blame you. It wasn’t fair for him to pick favorites. And it’s not fair that you carry that pain with you.” 

“Yeah, well. What do you know?” Dean mumbles, suddenly vulnerable and hating Cas for it. “Bet your family was thrilled when you went to Princeton. Probably had a big party for you when you got accepted.” 

Cas just smiles at him, a little sad. “My family disowned me when I told them that I was going to law school,” he says gently, and that’s...That’s a surprise. 

It must register on his face, because Cas’ eyes turn understanding at the edges. He settles back onto his stomach. Without realizing, Dean's hands return to tracing designs over Cas' skin. “They wanted me to go to seminary you see.” Cas’ voice is distant, like he’s trying to peer through the mists, though this couldn't have been more than ten years ago. “It was the plan that had been laid out since I was a child. Everything in my life had been set up so that I could achieve that goal. And when I decided that I no longer wanted to follow their plan, to be their good son--” Cas shrugs. It’s not as effortless as he wants it to appear. “They decided that they had no place for a son who didn’t want to follow the rules. Luckily for me, I’d already turned 18 and had access to the trust fund, so money for college wasn’t a problem. But that was it, you see--no more guidance, no more help, no more parents.” 

Cas turns his head to the side. His eyes are unreadable as he looks at Dean. “So you see,” Cas says, as he traces the line of Dean’s lips with his thumb, “I would know something about being the unfavored son.” 

And there’s nothing else that Dean can say to that, no answer except but roll over and press his lips to Cas’. For once, there’s nothing behind the gesture--no hunger, no overwhelming passion, no lust or anger. There’s just the simple, human desire for comfort and contact, the security of knowing that he’s not alone and the solace of being able to provide the same reassurance to another person. 

Cas kisses him back, one hand curving around his cheek and pulling him closer. His leg hooks over Dean’s, ankles tangling together as they kiss until their lips are sore and chapped. Dean pulls Cas closer to him, arm snaking around Cas’ back to hold him as he kisses the corner of his mouth, his chin, his cheek. 

They fall asleep like that, foreheads pressed together, Cas’ hand on his neck, Dean’s curved over Cas’ waist, and it’s not until Jo knocks on the door at five a.m. that he even stirs awake. 

\---

Dean travels back to his apartment to change and shower. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and brews a quick cup of coffee to take in the travel mug. All the while, he ignores how cold the corners of his apartment feel, how empty it all is. He’d never thought so, not until this job. 

The trial is tomorrow and Dean can’t shake the feeling of a clock ticking down to zero. 

Once he arrives at work, he goes through his morning routines. He boots up his computer while checking through his paperwork, making sure that nothing new landed on his desk while he wasn’t looking. He ignores the calls from those who wish him less than well asking how his babysitting gig is going. He makes sure that Kevin Tran’s face hasn’t gotten pinged on any alarms and does the same for Linda Tran as well as the ever elusive Edgar. 

Nothing, nothing, a big steaming pile of _nothing_ awaits him there. Dean bites back the frustration turning into anxiety and finishes the routine. His email is a fairly uninteresting place, but Cas’ email is a veritable treasure trove. 

He flips through dozens of spam emails, discounting each of them, until he arrives at an email with just a series of numbers and letters as the sender’s address. His heart kicks up a few notches. 

He hovers the mouse over the blank subject line before clicking on it. 

He reads the email. 

And then he reads it again. 

He reads it a third time before he finally manages to translate the small symbols on the screen into English. 

_Novak--Even if you’re bending over for your protection detail, it still won’t save you. You can fuck all the detectives you want, but unless you drop the trial, you’ll be dead by the end of opening arguments tomorrow. For a bonus, we’ll throw in your pretty officer to keep you company._

Dean’s mouth goes dry. He tries to force some saliva into his mouth but it doesn’t work. When he swallows his coffee it tastes like mud. His hand reaches for his phone. Without really knowing what he’s doing, he dials Charlie’s number. 

She answers almost immediately, her voice unwontedly serious. “I’m guessing that you saw it?” Dean asks without preamble. 

“Just a few minutes ago. Trying to track it now, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.” The sound of swift typing accompanies Charlie’s grim words. Dean wants to lose himself in it, but every time he tries, those simple lines pull him back. 

He can blink away a threat against his person. Much like Cas, when people threaten his life, Dean considers it a mark that he’s doing his job well. No, what sends the ice down his spine is the completely true accusation that Castiel is currently sleeping with his protection. 

“Charlie,” Dean croaks out, his mouth dryer than the Sahara. “Charlie, they...What they said…” 

“It’s just a threat,” Charlie says, though there’s a tight thread of tension in her voice. “They’re grasping at straws.” 

She’s probably right. It’s the level of homophobic insult that Dean would expect from someone who would look at a dead eight year and consider that an acceptable loss. But he can’t shake the crawling feeling that they know, and he tells Charlie such. 

“How?” Charlie asks. “I’ve been cleaning the feed every morning, and unless you two are being stupid and doing the frick frack somewhere public, there’s no way in hell that you were seen. That house is secure--Like I said, the only people that have been in there since this whole thing started are you, me, Novak, Jo, and Benny. Novak’s assistant showed up once, along with that weird guy from the office. My equipment is good. Trust me, if someone else had shoved into our feed, I’d know about it.” 

Charlie sighs in frustration. “What I’m more concerned about is the fact that I can’t track down this IP address. They’ve spoofed it, and it’s like it’s coming from dozens of places. It’s pinging off of four different cell towers, which means that I can’t triangulate an accurate position. Whoever’s doing this--they’re good and from what you said, Edgar doesn’t have this level of technical knowhow.” 

Dean’s head is starting to hurt. “So there’s more people involved than just him? You think that Roman has someone from his IT department delivering threats?” 

Keys clack in the background with what sounds like extreme prejudice. “I’m trying to figure it out. Give me the day.” 

“All right,” Dean says. Unease ripples in the pit of his stomach and stays there, churning uncomfortably. Now, more than ever, he’s aware of a ticking clock hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles. “It’s just...The email was pretty specific. The trial starts tomorrow, which means opening arguments start tomorrow.” 

Charlie sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Look, I’m not telling you how to do your job,” she says after a moment, “but just consider that this is at least the third threat delivered via email. Is it...Is it possible that these threats are just made to intimidate? And that there’s no real action imminent?” 

Dean doesn’t speak for a long moment, long enough that he hears Charlie start to shift nervously on the other end of the line. He doesn’t mean to be an asshole and leave her squirming, but he’s parsing out all the facts in his head. 

Charlie doesn’t raise a bad point--Dozens of threats have been made against Cas’ life. Dean knows more than most--generally speaking, if someone is planning on truly hurting someone, they don’t waste their time with threats. Common logic and experience says that the threats are toothless in nature, meant to do exactly what Charlie suggested: intimidate a young A.D.A. from pursuing an unpopular case. 

But Dean also has experience on his side, as well as a gut instinct that hasn’t let him down yet. And his gut tells him that there’s more to these threats than just routine intimidation. They’re too specific, too perfect, too tailored. They’ve gone into too much detail about Castiel’s routine, who he’s close to, his potential weaknesses. At first they went after Hannah and Cas' brother. Then, they went after Jo. Now, they’ve targeted Dean. 

No, every one of his instincts is screaming at him that these threats are legitimate. Worse yet, that the person behind them means exactly what they say: That tomorrow is the day that it all comes together. 

“We’ll see,” is all that he tells Charlie. “Try and hunt down that IP address. Even if there is no intent to harm behind them, we can still nab them for intimidation and attempted tampering.” 

“Yeah, sure thing,” Charlie says. She sounds a little relieved that Dean hasn’t chosen to bite her head off. “I’ll have that IP address for you. Promise.” Even through the phone lines, Dean can imagine the force of her smile. “Oh, and Dean? Make sure you treat your boy right tonight. He’s got a big day ahead of him tomorrow.” 

The words hit him in the gut, but instead of the quick flash of shame and anger that he would expect, all that he gets from them is a warm, unexpected curl of pleasure. It stays for only a second, but that second is enough for Dean to end the call gracefully. 

Because he knows what he has to do tonight. 

He has to tell Cas about everything that he’s been keeping from him. 

\---

The day passes. Charlie never does get back to him with that IP address, though she texts him several times and tells him that she’s untangling some ‘interesting leads’. Whatever that means in her world. 

Dean goes through a last ditch attempt to find the Trans. He visits any old haunts of theirs: Linda’s job, their house, even Kevin’s old high school. He calls Kevin’s girlfriend, just to see if she’s heard anything from him in the past few months. She replies in the negative, a little irritated now that this is the third time he’s called her to ask the same questions. 

“It’s something that causes me a lot of pain,” she says, voice coming through her nose. “And I’d appreciate you not coming by here and dragging up painful memories, especially after I’ve started to heal from them.” 

Dean hangs up the phone, no closer to an answer and feeling like Kevin Tran, no matter his intelligence, has crappy taste in women. 

There’s more good news waiting for him when he arrives at Cas’ office. He arrives at his regular time, and slides in silently. Cas’ door is closed, but Dean can hear the low rumble of his voice and see the shadows shifting under the door as Cas paces the room. He can guess what Cas is doing--practicing his opening arguments, perfecting the language, and rehearsing until the words come without thought to his lips. 

Dean’s only been in the office for about thirty minutes when a sharp rap echoes through the suite. He looks up, hand drifting to inside his jacket. The door opens, the person on the other side not waiting for an invitation. When they enter the office, Dean understands why. 

“Ah, Detective.” Zachariah Adler is a fixture of Lawrence politics. He’s had his job as the District Attorney for as long as Dean’s been on the force, and while the detectives on the force aren’t thrilled with the way that he runs his office, the voters of Lawrence must disagree with them. Otherwise, there’s no way that he’d manage to keep his office for that long. 

“I haven’t thanked you for taking care of Mr. Novak.” Adler steps into the office, surveying the humble space like he owns it. At his heels, Ion follows closely, like the good little toady that he is. Dean sneers when Ion deigns to look his way. “We’re thankful.” 

Asshole actually uses the royal ‘we’. Unironically. Dean’s glad that his stomach is empty, or else he might be gagging onto the nice carpet. 

Adler smooths an imaginary crease out of his suit. The late afternoon sun lances off his shiny bald head, and if he weren’t so disconcerted by Adler’s presence in Cas’ office, then Dean might actually laugh at the whole affair. As it is, however, he’s just very uncomfortable. He wants to put himself between Cas and this asshole (his job is to protect Cas and he can already tell that whatever Adler’s doing in here, it isn’t going to be anything good), but that’s not his place. 

No, his place is to watch and seethe as Adler knocks on the door to Castiel’s office. Without waiting for an invitation, he opens the door. 

Cas’ immediate expression of annoyance smooths to one of polite neutrality once he sees the identity of his visitor. “To what do we owe the visit?” he asks, voice stiff and wooden. 

There’s some kind of bad blood between Castiel and Adler. Dean wasn’t sure of it before; he hadn’t known whether it was just Cas bridling at what he thought was too much interference or whether there was genuine ill-feeling there, but now he knows. The way that Adler sizes up Cas, like he’d love nothing more than to snap him up, the way that Cas eyes Adler like he’d love nothing more than to rip a hole in the other man’s gullet on his way down. Adler might not be able to fire Cas yet, but he wants to. 

“Just checking in to see how you were feeling,” Adler says, with all the oiliness of a used car salesman. “It is the afternoon before the big day.” 

“I’m aware,” Cas says, voice dryer than the Sahara. 

Adler’s expression darkens. Something mean and petty shines in his eyes. “It would be a shame to enter into such a big trial with nothing less than the best preparation. Failure to win this trial could have...consequences.” He puts an inordinate amount of weight on that single word, consequences, just to watch Cas flinch. “You’ll remember that I had my reservations about bringing this case to court to begin with.” Adler lowers his voice and Dean tries very hard to look like he’s not eavesdropping. “There’s still time to approach with a plea deal. Roman would take it. He wants his name out of the press. He’ll pay for what he did, but we won’t have to drag this office through a potentially disastrous trial.” 

“He’ll pay?” Cas’ voice is cold as it rings through the office. “His lawyer will argue for a reduced sentence. Probation. Perhaps some kind of community service, which he’ll manage to wriggle out of. He’ll write a check that’s not even a sixth of what he’s worth. And the world keeps turning, except for those people who lost their loved ones. Is that the price of a child’s life these days?” 

Dean ducks his head into the folders on the desk to hide the grin that threatens to split his face. It would be the smart idea to offer the plea deal. It would be better for Cas, better for Dean, and supposedly better for the D.A.’s office. 

But where is the line drawn? Who gets to draw it? 

An eight year old boy dead, and Castiel Novak said _Someone needs to take a stand_.

Dean can’t even lie to himself anymore. It might have started out as hate-sex, as a way for them both to release some of their mutual tension, but that’s not what it is anymore. Somewhere along the way, whether it was between the late dinners, the trips to the shooting range to improve Cas’ aim (Cas can manage to shoot a gun without breaking his shoulder, which Dean considers a huge accomplishment), or yeah, in between all the fucking, Dean Winchester went and fell hard for the man who he’s supposed to be able regard as nothing more than a job. 

Dean looks at Cas and takes in the curl of his upper lip, the jut of his chin, the narrow squint of his eyes. He’s all kinds of Old Testament wrath, the fire and brimstone type of avenging angel. Something too hot and painful to be called pleasurable twists in Dean’s stomach when he realizes that tonight, he’s going to have to tell Castiel goodbye. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	8. the trial

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


They’re both quiet on the drive home, no doubt for different reasons. Ever since Zachariah’s visit, Castiel’s been in a slow fume, his fingers tapping at his chin. The clench of his jaw is so strong that Dean sincerely worries for the man’s dental health; he’s going to crack his enamel one day if he keeps that up. 

Then he has to remind himself that Castiel’s teeth are none of his concern. Apart from the fact that the man stays upright and breathing long enough to finish out this trial, _none_ of Castiel Novak is supposed to be his concern. Then Dean’s clenching his own teeth as his hands wring tiny little deaths out of the steering wheel. 

Then they’re pulling up to the house and he’s shutting off the car and they’re going through their nightly routine of Dean clearing rooms. He stops at the bedroom, because that’s always where he stops these days. He’ll stop and wait and then Cas will burst into the room and be on him like a hurricane, but today is different. He feels it in his gut. 

For his part, Cas picks up on the tension, but it doesn’t stop him. He still strides into the room like usual, his eyes already dark and focused on Dean. Despite what he knows has to happen in the next few moments, Dean can’t help but feel a frisson of delight and desire slither down his spine. It’s addicting, being the focus of such sharp intent. 

“Cas,” he says, holding onto Cas’ waist as the other man easily straddles him where he’s sitting at the foot of the bed. “Cas, I need to tell you something.” 

Dean shivers again at the low noise of frustration at the back of Cas’ throat. It’s obvious that talking is the last thing on Cas’ mind, but to his credit, he does pull back and ease up on his grabby hands. Somewhat against him however, is the fact that he does remain firmly in Dean’s lap. 

“What’s wrong?” Cas’ voice is impatient, and Dean can’t blame him. Of the two of them, Cas has never been anything less than fully forthcoming about what he wants from this arrangement. 

Something fun, _a way to blow off steam_ , a way to acknowledge the fact that they were both attracted to and stuck with the other. 

It’s not Cas’ fault that Dean went and developed feelings. 

“There’s something that I’ve got to show you.” It’s a testament to the both of them how easily Cas moves with him when Dean hitches up a hip to get at his phone. 

“Dean, if you’re getting ready to show me a dick pic, then I have to say that I’d prefer the firsthand experience, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“What?” Dean sputters for a second as his thumb skates across the screen. He looks up at at Cas, who has a small, wicked grin on his face. “The hell? No.” 

It doesn’t take him long at all to navigate to the screen housing all of the emailed threats against Cas. Wordlessly, Dean hands Cas the phone, then he settles back to wait. 

Cas flips through the emails, his thumb a blur on the screen. He’s a fast reader, has to be in his line of work, so it doesn’t take him long at all to reach the end. Dean watches the furrow between his eyes deepen the further he gets. He knows that he’s there when he watches Cas’ eyebrows raise and his lips purse. 

“You’ve been getting these all this time?” Dean nods, his focus somewhere around the gap of Cas’ shirt, where he can see the hollow of his collarbone. His lips yearn to taste the skin there, but there are other considerations. “And you kept them from me?” Cas finally asks, not looking up from the screen. 

“Yeah.” Something cold and miserable squirms in Dean’s gut. “What good would it have done? We were already doing everything we could. What good would telling you do?” 

“I would have  _ known _ .” Cas’ voice is tight with aggravation. As he watches, Dean can see tension creep into Cas’ muscles. He still can’t bring himself to look Cas in the eye. “Dean, it’s not just me getting threatened here. It’s Jo…It’s you.” 

Cas puts a strange inflection on the last word, odd enough that it has Dean looking up towards him. Above him, Cas’ face is performing some strange gymnastics--His eyebrows crumple, then firm up, while his mouth goes through an intriguing sort of dance. A soft, frustrated whine leaves Cas’ throat. It’s the only warning Dean gets before Cas tosses the phone onto the bed and grabs his face in both hands, pulling him into a hard, almost brutal kiss. 

Cas kisses like he always does--like the clock is ticking down and it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, like Dean is the only piece of the world that ever makes sense to him. But there’s something more in it this time, some hint of desperation in the way that Cas holds his head steady, not allowing Dean an inch of movement, in the merciless way that Cas licks into his mouth, teeth tugging at Dean’s lower lip. 

It’s a struggle to pull away, but he does. Dean breaks the kiss but he can’t bear yet to remove himself from the warmth of Castiel’s body. Instead, he rests his forehead onto the broad expanse of Cas’ chest. He listens for a moment, to the steady thud of Cas’ heart. Feels the predictable rise and fall of Cas’ chest. 

He’s going to miss this so damn much. 

“Dean?” Soothing fingertips trace along his hairline and dip past the collar of his shirt. “Dean?” 

“I’ve got to keep you safe.” The words are mostly lost into the wrinkles of Cas’ shirt, until Dean pulls his head back. It’s awful, looking into Cas’ eyes, but it’s what Cas deserves. “It’s my job...I’ve got to keep you safe.” 

There’s more there--How this is so much more than a job, how Cas is so much more than a protectee. Cas is essential, Cas is  _ everything.  _ But Dean doesn’t say any of that. 

“Dean.” Cas’ fingers stop moving over his skin. Dean mourns their loss. “Dean, what are you trying to say?” 

“I’m saying that I need to keep you safe. And that anything-- _ anything _ \--that gets in the way of that needs to stop.” Dean can’t help but slide his thumbs under the hem of Cas’ shirt and rub over the soft skin. “This needs to stop.” 

Above him, Castiel’s face is unreadable. He stares down at Dean, unblinking before he rests his thumb on the fullest part of Dean’s lower lip. 

“And you’re doing this through some twisted sense of what? Chivalry?” 

“Damn it Cas, there are people out there who want to kill you!” 

“And you,” Cas points out, a little too nonchalantly. “They were very specific in the email. Are you worried about that?” 

“I can handle myself. If I get hurt, then it’s not a big deal. But you--”

The rest of Dean’s words are lost in a rush of air as Cas pushes back, hard, on his shoulders. Dean hits the bed and doesn’t even bother to struggle as Cas crawls over him. 

“I’d recommend you not finish that sentence.” Cas’ voice is low, silky, and as dangerous as Dean’s ever heard it. “Unless you’re intimating that your life is somehow worth less than mine?” 

It’s exactly what Dean was saying--He’s just a grunt, in the grand scheme of things. Get rid of him and there are at least a dozen more in the precinct who could do his job just as well if not better than him. But Cas--Cas is the meteor, the diamond in the rough, the once in a million. 

Cas’ face twists for a second as he looks down at Dean. For a moment he looks unbearably sad before he smooths out his expression. His hand rests lightly on Dean’s chest, just over where his heart beats. 

“I’m not any more important than you are, and they threatened you too.” Cas leans forward. His face is mere inches away from Dean, close enough that if Dean wanted to, he could lean forward and kiss him. Somehow, he doesn’t want to, knowing that it would break the spell between them. 

“But I refuse to let someone else dictate what I can and cannot do. These people, these...whoever they are. They want to make it so I’m afraid to do anything. They’ve made it so you’re afraid.” 

“You’re damn right that I’m afraid,” Dean snaps. “All it’s going to take is one wrong move from me and you’re---” 

“Dean, do you want this?” Cas rolls his hips in a small, subtle motion so that there can be no misinterpreting what he means. 

The professional thing to do would be to gently push Cas aside and go into the command center. The friendly thing to do would be to explain to Cas that the parameters of the agreement have changed, that to Dean this is so much more than a way to blow off steam. The decent thing would be to lay all of his cards out on the table so they’re both playing with the same information. 

But Dean does the selfish thing, which is to reach up and cup the back of Cas’ head and bring Cas’ lips down to his. 

Being with Cas is always an intense experience, but this is almost transcendent. Dean swears that electricity sparks wherever their skin touches. He gasps into Cas’ mouth, fingers tugging at Cas’ hair, his shirt, any piece of Cas that he can touch. 

When Cas pulls away, he’s panting, hair wild and eyes dark. His hand rests possessively on Dean’s chest. Dean likes the warm weight of it, the surety in the simple gesture. “Dean,” Cas says, deftly flicking open the first few buttons on Dean’s shirt. He scratches his nails over the skin, grinning as Dean arches into his touch. 

“Stop teasing,” Dean grits out, tugging on Cas’ tie to punctuate his point. 

Cas smiles down at him. It’s bright and gummy, but with a hungry edge. “Or else what Dean?” He almost purrs the words, leaning in close. “What will you do?” He punctuates the words with a sinful roll of his hips that has Dean’s eyes rolling back in his skull. 

Cas leans in over him, his warm breath tickling Dean’s ear. “You going to let me fuck you tonight Dean?” 

And it’s not that Dean is one of those guys, the kind that somehow thinks that taking it up the ass makes you less of a man. He doesn’t think that it would make him weaker or any of the other toxic bullshit that some people peddle. It’s not even like he hasn’t let Cas finger him into oblivion before--Cas’ mouth on his cock and three fingers pressing on his prostate, hell yeah that’s a nice way to come. But actually having someone else inside him? That’s a lot of trust to put into another person. 

Cas waits, patient as the Sphinx, for his answer, and that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Cas is the answer. 

“Want it,” Dean whispers, no hint of suaveness in his voice. His fingers tremble as he traces them down Cas’ back. “Want you to fuck me Cas.” Cas groans, desperate and needy, his fingers grabbing onto Dean’s shoulders with unaccustomed possessiveness. 

They only pull apart long enough to ditch their clothes. By now, Dean’s grown accustomed to the frenzy that overtakes him whenever he has Cas in some state of undress, but today it’s almost overwhelming. He wants to touch, he wants to learn every inch of Cas’ skin all over again, he wants Cas to map him out like cartographers of old, until there’s no secret that he can hide from him. 

By the time that Cas strips him bare, Dean’s shivering with anticipation. Cas runs a soft hand down his flank, kissing him softly. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, kissing in a line down Dean’s chest. “Look at you, you’re so beautiful--” 

Dean whines, head thrown back against the pillows as Cas licks over his nipple. “Fuck, Cas,” he gasps out, twisting his fingers into Cas’ thick, soft hair. “Jesus.” 

Cas moves back up his body, kissing Dean until he’s dizzy. “Roll over,” Cas says, his hands urging Dean onto his stomach. 

Dean follows Cas’ instructions, shivering as he buries his face into the comforter. There’s something so vulnerable about being here like this, unable to see what Cas plans to do next, but there’s something thrilling in it as well. 

Cas sucks a slow, open-mouthed kiss at the nape of his neck before working his way down Dean’s spine. His hands spread wide over Dean’s ribs, smoothing over the skin in strokes that are alternately calming and maddening. By the time that Cas’ mouth lands on the dimples just above his ass, Dean is trembling, his breath torn from his throat in harsh little pants. 

“Cas,” is all he can get out, the name breathed through clenched teeth. It might be a plea, it might be a warning, he doesn’t know; none of it matters as long as Cas keeps on touching him. Cas’ hands...Cas’ hands on his ass, fingers digging into the meat as he spreads his cheeks wide, opening him up, exposing him. Dean whines at the feeling, dropping his forehead to the comforter as Cas nips down the swell of his ass. He’s never...No one’s ever...A harsh, guttural cry rips from his throat as Cas licks across his entrance. 

“Is that...Is this ok?” Cas asks, his voice low, rough, and hesitant. His thumbs stroke over Dean’s ass. 

Dean pauses to consider. His addled brain can barely remember how to breathe, let alone grasp all the reasons why he shouldn’t want this. “Yeah,” he finally grunts, clenching the comforter in his fists. “Yeah, it’s good.” 

“Good,” Cas says, dark and pleased, and Dean can almost imagine his smile. That’s before Cas goes to work, and then he’s not imagining much of anything at all, as all of his higher brain functions cease. It’s a struggle to remember how to breathe, in and out. 

Cas licks wide and flat over his hole until Dean’s spine softens and he relaxes into the sensations. Then Cas really starts in on him, flicking the tip of his tongue across the tight furl of muscle, before he slowly works his tongue inside of him. Dean bites at the fabric of the comforter, muffling his moans and cries. This is...He’s never had anything like this before,  _ never _ , the burn of Cas’ stubble on tender skin, Cas’ tongue working inside him, the dribble of spit trickling down his skin. 

He’s already zooming towards the edge just from the feel of Cas’ tongue working him open, Cas’ fingers spreading him wide. By now, Dean isn’t quite sure of what’s coming out of his mouth--a disjointed garble as he begs to come, begs for more, begs for Cas to fuck him--A single finger works inside him, along with Cas’ tongue, and Dean chokes his cry into the bedspread. 

“So good for me,” Cas murmurs. The heat of his body leaves Dean. A small, bereft cry leaves Dean’s lips, and it’s only soothed when Cas returns, dropping a kiss onto Dean’s shoulder. Later, he’ll feel humiliated about that, but right now, he’s shaking with the anticipation of Cas’ touch. “You’re going to be so good for me,” Cas promises, just before he slides two lube-slick fingers into Dean. 

Dean rocks back into the touch, needing more. He bites down into the meat of his arm, trying to muffle his cries, but Cas just twists his fingers until he draws all sorts of noises out of Dean’s throat. It’s the sweetest kind of torture: Cas’ fingers fill him up but not enough, not the in the way that he’s starting to crave. 

“Please,” he almost begs, when Cas has three fingers buried deep inside him, thrusting lazily. “Please, please, come on Cas.” Dean rolls his hips back into Cas’ hand, urgency coating the back of his tongue. “Need you, need you so bad.” 

Cas muffles his moan by biting down into Dean’s ass. The sharp burst of pain only accentuates the pleasure, makes it sharper and darker. Urgency spikes through his blood, and Dean is just about to work a hand underneath himself and finish himself off like that, before Cas bats his hand away. 

“Enough,” he warns. His tone is enough to send another shudder of longing through Dean. 

“Cas,” he says, craning his head over his shoulder, “come on, please. Please, I want it. Want you so badly.” 

Cas isn’t unaffected, Dean notes with a hint of smugness. There’s a soft pink flush dashing across his cheeks and shoulders and the blue in his eyes is almost eclipsed by the dark of his pupils. He looks at Dean with need writ large and raw across his face and it’s almost enough to make Dean come right then and there. 

“Come on,” he urges, canting his hips in clear invitation. “Come on big boy.” 

Things happen very quickly from there--another dollop of lube, the preparations perfunctory and utilitarian instead of teasing. The sound of a foil wrapper being ripped open, Cas’ soft exhale as he rolls the condom on and slicks himself up. The feel of Cas’ hand on Dean’s hip, steadying him. Blunt pressure against his hole and a hand running over the small of his back. 

“Breathe,” Cas urges, his voice tight as the ring of muscle yields and he starts to slip in. “Just relax.” 

Dean follows his advice, bearing down as he drops his head to the comforter. It’s overwhelming, the slow slide of Cas into him, slow enough that Dean feels the drag of every inch inside him. It’s thick and hot and perfect and he gasps into the sheets, fingers twisting the fabric until he thinks he hears something rip. Far away, he feels Cas’ hands smooth over his back and shoulders, kisses dropped to the knobs of his spine. 

“Fuck Dean, shit, so good for me.” From where Cas is plastered over his back, Dean can feel the trembles shaking through his body. Cas kisses his shoulder, teeth scraping against his skin, and Dean keens. 

“Move. Move, move, move Cas. Please.” He can’t be bothered to be ashamed of the way that his voice breaks, not when he hears Cas suck in a harsh breath. 

Cas rolls his hips, shallow and tentative, enough to give Dean a chance to breathe. It’s kind of him, the gentlemanly thing to do, but desperation has built up in Dean so much that he can taste it. “Come on Cas, give it to me,” Dean goads, canting his hips back into Cas’. “Wanna feel it.” 

When Cas’ hands land on his hips, fingertips digging into his fair skin, Dean could sob from gratitude. He feels Cas shifting behind him, getting his knees under him, and then--

He hadn’t known that it could be this good. Cas moving in him, sliding hot pleasure through every bit of him, Cas’ hands on his skin, the slick slap of skin on skin. Cas fucks like a machine, every thrust engineered to give him the maximum amount of bliss. 

Dean’s elbows give out and then he’s faceplanting against the mattress, whining out his pleasure as Cas fucks into him. He can’t breathe, every push from Cas’ hips knocks the breath right out of him, and he can’t care, he doesn’t need it anymore, all he needs is the sheer euphoria of Cas moving in him. 

He’s aware that he’s chanting something that sounds like a mangled version of Cas’ name and the word  _ please please please _ , and maybe later he’ll feel ashamed of the way that he begs for whatever Cas will give him, but he can’t right now. Every thrust of Cas pushes him towards the edge, lights him up, but it’s not until Cas shifts that Dean feels sheer ecstasy blaze through him. 

“There?” Cas asks, the smug bastard. He cards his hand through Dean’s hair, scratching down his back to his side. “That good?” 

“Oh fuck you, you know it is,” Dean manages to groan, eyes rolling back in his head as Cas tags his prostate again. 

It’s almost too much, but he can’t stop asking for more, demanding it as he shoves back into Cas. He wants everything, wants the world, and he trusts that Cas can give it to him. 

That is until Cas pulls out, leaving him aching and empty. Dean can’t stop the low cry of disappointment that leaves him, his nerves screaming with the need for  _ more _ , but then Cas’ hands are on him, urging him onto his back. 

“Need to see you,” Cas murmurs, his voice wrecked and urgent. His hands are possessive and needy as he strokes down Dean’s chest, thumbing over his nipples. “Need to…” He leans over Dean, kissing him hard and deep. 

Dean’s arms wind their way around Cas’ shoulders, pulling him closer, so that they’re pressed together, chest to chest. He hikes his legs around Cas’ waist, loving the way that Cas’ arms surround him. He wants to stay like this, pressed so closely together that nothing can come between them--not threats, not trials, not even Dean’s own stupidity. 

Cas only pulls back far enough to grab the base of his cock as he presses back against Dean’s loosened hole. Dean sighs in relief as Cas starts the slow slide back in, his body relaxing around the delicious invasion. By the time that his balls come to rest against Dean’s ass, Dean is whining, low and needy in the back of his throat. His hand rests at the back of Cas’ neck, pulling him down so that Dean can lip kisses across his chin before finally reaching his lips. 

“Need you,” he whispers, sighing in relief as Cas starts to roll his hips, deep and purposeful. “Oh, oh fuck Cas, need you so bad, fuck baby, that’s it, right there--” 

Cas kisses him and it’s like being born, it’s like the ocean, waves rolling in and out. Dean sobs, caught in the tide, his cock smearing between their stomachs, sparks igniting through him. All he can do is just hold onto Cas, kiss him until he’s breathless. 

He’s close, he knows it, and he tries to fight against it, desperate to hold onto this moment, the slow, aching poignancy of it. Here, he’s endless, every moment lasts years-- 

Dean’s orgasm washes over him, the tides rolling in, and he floats on it, gasping and trembling, hand heavy on the back of Cas’ neck as he cries out against Cas’ lips. He whimpers into Cas’ mouth, shaking apart underneath him and Cas kisses him through it, never stops moving him as he fucks Dean through his orgasm and to the other side. 

Afterward, Dean lies limp on the bed, his hands smoothing over Cas’ biceps, tense with restraint. Cas ducks his head to kiss at the base of Dean’s throat, his hips quickening their pace as he thrusts artlessly into Dean, intent on chasing his own orgasm. “That’s it,” Dean murmurs, running his hand through Cas’ thick, sweat-damp hair. “Come on big boy, that’s it.” 

Cas’ mouth crashes into his as his hips stutter against Dean’s ass. Dean tastes his groans as Cas grinds against him several times. From there, it’s a slow collapse as Cas rests his full weight onto Dean. 

Dean runs his hands along Cas’ back, his shoulders, down to his flanks. He chases the small tremors still working their way through Cas’ body, cards his fingers through Cas’ hair. He turns his head so that his nose brushes against Cas’ cheek, stubble burning against his sensitive skin. He never wants to let this moment go, would hold it in the palm of his hand until it melted away, if he could. 

Cas stirs against him, turning his head to lazily catch Dean’s lips with his. “Shower,” he murmurs, though he makes no move to get up. He kisses Dean, slow and sweet, his tongue sweeping along Dean’s lower lip. 

It’s Dean who pulls away, brushing Cas’ hair away from his face. He can’t bear to end this moment, but he has to. For Cas’ sake, for his. “You’ve got a big day ahead of you,” Dean says. 

He feels, more than sees, Cas pull away from him. It happens in increments, but it happens, until Cas is miles away, even though his skin presses against Dean’s. 

Cas pulls away and it’s more than the lack of body heat against his skin that leaves Dean feeling cold and alone. 

\---

The sound of the shower echoes through the room. Dean sits on the bed, goosebumps chasing themselves across his shoulders, as he listens. He can’t stop picking at a stray thread on the comforter as he lets his mind chase itself in circles. 

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice when the shower stops. He only realizes that Cas has left when a few drops of water fall onto his hands. He looks up to find Cas standing in front of him, hair dripping and skin flushed a delightful pink. 

“You should get a shower too,” Cas says, his voice carefully neutral. 

He should get a shower--his skin is tacky with drying sweat and other, less pleasant bodily fluids that are caked onto him. He craves the comfort of a shower, along with other, more intangible things. 

“I should probably head back to my place once Jo gets here. Like I said, it’s a big day tomorrow.” 

Cas stills, his fingers just barely but not quite brushing against Dean’s cheek. The second that the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. 

The burden of the trial pushes down on his shoulders. The worry of the threats, the certainty that he needs to protect Cas’ life, with his own if necessary. The weight of the world on his shoulders and Dean wants comfort from the only person with more responsibility on their shoulders than him. 

“You don’t have to go,” Cas says finally. His voice is carefully blank as is his face--no expectations, no insinuations. Nothing that could be misinterpreted. 

“You could stay,” Cas says. 

He should go. He should leave when Jo arrives for her shift, go back to his house and get ready for tomorrow. He should spend his time working more on the case, leaning on Charlie for answers, running down any and all leads. He should spend the night awake and stressing, his penance for not being able to protect Cas from enemies foreign or domestic. 

But Cas says,  _ You could stay,  _ like that’s the only viable option. He says it like he doesn’t know that Dean isn’t the kind of man who stays, isn’t the kind of man who spends the night and gets breakfast the next morning. 

He says it like he wants Dean to stay. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. It’s a slow motion that has him leaning forward until his forehead presses against the damp skin of Cas’ stomach. Cas’ arms wrap loosely around his shoulders as his fingers start to play with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Dean’s arms wrap around Cas’ legs as he strokes the back of his hands down the softly furred skin of Cas’ legs. It’s not sexual--It’s comfort. It’s the balm to the hurt part of Dean that he never acknowledges exists. It’s everything that he wants and nothing that he can have, and he still says, “Yeah, I guess that I can stay.”

  
  


\---

Cas’ alarm breaks through the silence of the room at five thirty in the morning, startling Dean out of a sound sleep. For one wild moment, he can’t remember where he is or whose body is next to him. Then, awareness sneaks back into his mind. 

Dean rolls over to look at Castiel. The other man is on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling. He’s so motionless that at first, Dean thinks he’s still asleep. It’s only when he jostles Cas’ shoulders and his eyes slide to the side that Dean realizes that Cas has been lying quietly in bed for what might have been hours. 

“Did you sleep at all?” Dean asks, propping himself up on an elbow. 

Cas shrugs, the motion stilted by the mattress. “A few hours.” He doesn’t quite manage to stifle a yawn. “I never sleep the morning before a trial.” 

“Right,” Dean murmurs, the reality of the day settling around him. Today begins the trial. The memory of the threats pushes at Dean, propelling him up and out of bed. 

Castiel watches him, silent, as Dean gets dressed. For his part, Dean tries not to look at Castiel. If he does, then the weight of his responsibilities will crush him. There’s too much to lose. 

“I suppose that I’ll see you at the courthouse?” Castiel asks, once Dean tosses his tie over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to look perfect; he just needs to look presentable enough to make it out the door and to the car. He’ll change into more appropriate clothes when he gets home. 

“I’ll be there,” Dean answers. He gives into temptation and glances at Cas before he leaves the room. That glance turns into a gaze as he takes in the firm line of Cas’ shoulders, the glow of his skin in the dim light of pre-dawn, the tangled mess of his dark hair. 

There’s nothing that Dean wants more to turn around and crawl back into that bed. He wants to wrap himself around Cas and promise that nothing bad will ever touch him. He wants to kiss Cas sweet and lazy, like they’re people who do this regularly. He wants to kiss Cas without the urgency of a ticking clock above them. 

Most of all, he just wants to be able to look at Cas and be able to feel any kind of permanence, but that’s not his life. 

“I won’t be able to talk to you before the trial starts; I’ll be too busy running interference and crowd control.” Dean’s hand is already on the doorknob. He should go. He needs to go home and get changed into his tactical gear so that he can be at the courthouse in time to control the small mob that’s going to descend upon it in a few hours. He needs to start weaning himself off of Cas so that when this ends it’s not going to hurt as much. He needs to go back to two weeks ago when Cas was nothing more than an irritating job. 

“So...good luck,” Dean offers. 

The words sound empty and pathetic in the gloom and quiet. They’re still rattling around his head as Dean starts the car and heads towards home. 

\---

True to his predictions, the courthouse is pure, unfiltered chaos even hours before the trial. 

Bobby and the captain of the Seventh Precinct, Rufus Turner, have coordinated to set up barriers along the street, keeping the protesters at bay, but they’re already gathered, signs in hand. From the looks of it, some want Dick Roman executed in the streets. Others are angry at the government oversight of a legitimate businessman. And others are just shouting obscenities. 

Dean sighs and rubs at his temples. His goddamn head is already hurting and it’s not even seven. 

He walks down the street in his full tactical gear--black shirt and black pants, gun belt strapped to his waist, and a bulletproof vest blazoned with ‘Police’ on the back. Normally, he prefers the understated look of the plain clothes, but there’s a time for being subtle and surrounded by screaming crowds isn’t it. 

Dean finds Bobby off to the side, running things from the van parked a block away from the courthouse. The normally irritable captain is positively incandescent as he shouts orders into a walkie-talkie. When he sees Dean, there’s just the barest flicker of something that isn’t outright hostility. 

“What do you want?” Bobby grumps into his beard. He’s in full uniform, cognizant of the cameras taking in their every move. “I’ve got enough problems with the damn press trying to break out of their area, those idjit protesters screaming at anything that damn well moves, not to mention Rufus is being a son of a bitch about protocol--”

“You cleared the building rooftops, right?” Dean asks. He’ll listen to Bobby bitch about the press and about protestors, but if Bobby gets on the topic of complaining about Rufus, Dean knows from painful experience that they’ll be there for literal hours. 

“What kind of idiot do you take me for?” The manic light in Bobby’s eyes dares Dean to answer the rhetorical question. “The rooftops are cleared. Anyone who wants to get a shot sniping at your man is going to have to be a military grade shot, and if Roman’s got one of those in his back pocket, then to hell with this whole thing.” 

Thrown by Bobby’s casual use of the phrase,  _ your man,  _ Dean doesn’t respond at first.  _ Stupid,  _ he chastises himself, cringing from Bobby’s upraised eyebrows, of course Bobby was just referring to the fact that for the past few weeks, Dean’s been the lead on his protection detail, how idiotic to assume that Bobby meant anything else. 

“Yeah, awesome,” Dean mumbles. He wants to be anywhere else at that moment, somewhere far away from Bobby and from the van that smells like week old Chinese food. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I just got a text from Benny, he and Novak are en route.” 

“Do good work today,” Bobby tells him. His attention is already half-focused on another problem. “With any luck, all the crazies will be gone tomorrow and we can just do our damn jobs.” 

“Yeah. Great.” Dean mutters some other meaningless platitudes before slipping away from the van. He glances at his phone, quickly memorizing the path that Benny plans on taking. In order to avoid media attention, he’s taking Castiel through the back alleys surrounding the courthouse and entering in through the side. It’s a longer route, but ultimately one that will call less attention. Dean understands his reasoning--the alleys surrounding the courthouse are like a labyrinth, making it difficult to follow someone. Better yet, they’re removed from the street, which minimizes the chances of being seen or heard. 

He’s waiting at the side entrance, ready to open it when Benny raps sharply. The knock comes soon enough and Dean opens the door to let the two in. Benny is dressed identically to him, his vest stretching across his broad chest. Behind him, Castiel looks as immaculate as Dean’s ever seen him, suit pressed and clinging to the lines of his body. Even his hair is tamed into something that’s approaching respectable. Dean swallows, hard, and hopes that Benny doesn’t catch the motion. 

“It’s crazy out there,” Benny drawls as he, Dean, and Cas walk through the deserted hallways of the courtroom. Without the usual hustle and bustle, their footsteps echo through the empty halls. “Tell you the truth, I didn’t think that this thing was going to be a big deal.” 

Dean catches the way that Cas’ spine stiffens but he doesn’t say anything. Cas already has a look in his eyes like he’s miles away. He moves methodically as he walks into the courtroom. 

Dean’s only been in here a few times to give evidence, but he remembers the dimensions of the room. It’s the largest courtroom, boasting a balcony as well as extended seating. This room is reserved for the more popular trials, the ones which bring increased attendance as well as press attention. 

Speaking of--There’s a quiet murmur as the press starts to file into the balcony area, in the section set aside specially for them. Dean glances up at them, but only for a cursory glance. There are guards posted at every entrance, along with metal detectors, so the chances of a weapon making it into the courtroom itself are slim. Still, there’s something about the crowd of bodies settling into their seats that catches his attention. It sits at the back of his mind, like an itch that he just can’t quite scratch. 

He should be watching Cas. He should be making another sweep of the room, making sure that there are no surprises left. He needs to coordinate with the bailiffs and reiterate his expectations. He needs to get Garth into position outside the courtroom. There are about two dozen things that he needs to do, but he can’t stop looking at the press balcony, searching for something unseen. 

The door to the courtroom opens. Dean tenses, caught on edge, but it’s just Hannah and Ion entering the room. He’s not sure exactly what Ion did to deserve a front row seat to this trial. To the best of his knowledge, Ion’s help with preparation extended to fetching Cas’ gym clothes and dry cleaning from his house. Dean has a nagging suspicion that Cas is saddled with Ion as a punishment from Adler, but that’s not his problem. Not now, when there’s something so fundamentally  _ wrong _ with the situation in the press balcony. 

“I’ll be back,” Dean says, making a split-second decision. He claps Benny on the shoulder and Benny, caught up in examining the schedule for the day, barely flinches. Cas, though, Cas looks up at him, his eyes wide and puzzled. 

“Dean--Detective,” he fumbles, his eyes darting over to Benny for a second. Benny, if he notices the slip, doesn’t relax, but Cas remains awkward and wrong-footed. “Could you--I just need--It won’t take long, but I thought that--” 

“Sorry,” Dean says, his eyes already drifting from Cas’ face back up to the balcony. “Later, I promise, all right? There’s just something that I’ve got…” He glances at Cas, just in time to see the other man rearrange his facial expression from something incomprehensible into something resembling carved marble. “Later, all right?” Dean says, ignoring the guilty twist of his conscience. Before he can brood too much on that, he catches a flash of movement in the balcony, sees something that sparks the hint of memory. 

He leaves the courtroom and doesn’t bother to look behind him. 

\---

The guilt follows him as he makes his way up the stairs. He’ll make it up later to Cas, he tells himself, unsure of exactly what that means. He’ll bring him some nice takeout tonight? Suck his dick really well? He’s not sure what special treatment looks like in their situation, and he’s not given the opportunity to find out. 

The door leading to the balcony opens and a short figure walks out, head down. They’re moving quickly and Dean almost has to sprint to catch up with them. He lunges forward, hand wrapping around the person’s elbow--This isn’t procedure, he knows that, but he can hopefully claim exigent circumstances later to explain his behavior. All he knows for sure his that his blood is pulsing with promise and potential that he hasn’t felt in weeks. 

“Lawrence P.D.,” he says, using his grip on the man’s elbow (it’s a man, Dean can tell by the width of the shoulders and hips, the way that he walked, the length of his fingers) to turn him around. “What are you--” 

He looks into the man’s--the  _ boy’s _ \--face, and his question stutters to a halt. 

Because looking back at him, eyes wide and terrified, but with a hint of defiance, is Kevin Tran. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	9. to protect

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He can’t...He honestly can’t believe what he’s seeing. Weeks of searching, of siccing Charlie on the trail, of calling all of his contacts, of asking for Sam’s help--And he finds the kid here, with a purloined press pass and a leather folder clutched to his chest? Life doesn’t happen this way, cases aren’t solved with serendipity and luck. 

But maybe they are, because that sure as shit is Kevin Tran, in all of his Advanced Placement glory, standing in front of him. 

“Kevin Tran?” Dean asks, astonishment dripping from the question. 

He’s been searching for this kid for what feels like an eternity. The desire to find him has probably clouded his rational thinking processes, which is why a kid that looks like he weighs a buck twenty soaking wet gets the drop on him by kicking him in the shin. Pain bursts in a sharp little spiral from the point of contact, which gives Kevin enough time to break free of Dean’s loosened grip. 

“Oh what the hell,” Dean snarls, lunging forward. His leg throbs, but it’s not enough to stop him from sprinting forward and grabbing Kevin. This time he’s a lot less gentle as he slams him back into the wall. 

“Ok, now tell me why I shouldn’t put you under arrest from assaulting a police officer.” Dean keeps his shins well away from Kevin’s sharp little shoes. 

“Please,” Kevin scoffs, though the thin shred of terror in his voice tells Dean that he’s bluffing his bravado and not all that well. “Like that’s really what you’re concerned about.” 

Dean has a swiftly forming bruise on his leg that would beg to differ, but Kevin is right--He does have larger concerns on his mind. “You are Kevin Tran?” He gets a short nod as confirmation. “Then why the hell are you running?” 

Kevin laughs, a sharp, nervous sound, brittle as nails on a chalkboard. “Are you kidding?” His eyes dart nervously around, but this close to the start of the trial no member of the press would dare leave and risk losing their seat. No, he and Dean are well and alone, but that doesn’t explain the shred of terror lingering in the whites of Kevin’s eyes. “Someone calling himself a cop follows me and throws me up against a wall?” He laughs and this time, it’s just an empty, bitter sound. “That’s what they said the first time too.” 

“I’m not calling myself a cop--Here.” With the hand not currently pinning Kevin to the wall, Dean fumbles at his belt. He comes up with his badge and flashes it, quick and shiny at Kevin. 

If he was expecting Kevin to be impressed or even relax, he’s far off the mark. Kevin glances down at the badge, the easiest  _ No you can trust me  _ token that Dean can imagine, and instead of relaxing, he tenses. His eyes shutter before he looks at Dean. “Yeah, the last guy had one of those too.” 

Dean blinks. Kevin’s words make an awful sort of sense, but not one that he’s willing to believe. “Are you saying…” His stomach sinks. For a horrible, lurching moment, he thinks that he might be sick. “What happened to you?” 

Kevin rolls his eyes. “Now you want to know?” He glances around the hallway. “Is there someplace more private we can go?” 

“You want to buy me a drink first?” Dean mutters, but it looks like his humor is lost on Kevin. It’s his turn to roll his eyes as he jerks his head towards a small room that he knows will be empty. “Here.” 

His stomach squirms at the thought of leaving Cas, but he’s not letting Kevin Tran out of his sight. At least not until he’s gotten his whole statement. 

He herds Kevin into a small room that he thinks is mostly meant for interviews. At one point it may very well have been a supply closet. There’s just enough room for a tiny table and two folding chairs. Dean sits down across the table from Kevin, then, moving deliberately so Kevin can see, places his phone on the table between them, before hitting the record button. 

No way in hell he’s not getting evidence of this conversation. 

“Just for the record,” Dean begins. He can barely keep his voice from shaking with anticipation. “Your name is Kevin Tran.” 

Kevin nods, then, once Dean points to the phone, says, with great condensation, “Yes.” 

“And where have you been the past few months?”

Kevin swallows. His eyes dart towards the door, rabbit quick, like he’s calculating his chances of making a clean getaway, just as his fingers clench convulsively around the leather satchel in his hands. If he looks hard enough, Dean can see the frantic beat of his pulse, thrumming against his neck like a desperate, caged thing. 

“It’s just us here,” Dean says, pitching his voice as low and soothing as he can, and wishing desperately that Jody or Garth were here to help with this. He’s not prone to giving warm fuzzies, can’t quite ever erase the growl from his voice, but something must work because Kevin finally takes a full breath and lets his shoulders sag. 

He speaks directly to Dean’s phone, like looking at Dean would be too much effort, as he talks about how it had just begun as a research project for his Dual Enrollment Government class. They’d been asked to research a legal case currently making its way through the courts and follow it until it concluded or the school year ended, whichever came first. And Kevin, overworked and yet still ambitious, had chosen to look at the case struggling through the back channels of the Lawrence justice system, spearheaded by the efforts of a brilliant but, as all the articles agreed, painfully naive A.D.A. named Castiel Novak. 

Dean’s chest warms as, with Sam-like pride, Kevin describes how the case had taken him in and how he’d started to do more research on his own time, looking into Roman Corporations and Sucrocorp. He’s a little iffy with the details, is Kevin, which makes Dean think that he might not have come by his information entirely legally, but Kevin tells him how he researched the chemical makeup of LV-1THN and the conclusions that he came to. 

“It’s basically poison,” he tells Dean, his eyes open and earnest. “It’s supposed to be a catalyst for weight-loss, at least that’s what they were marketing it as, but it’s designed to target cells and strangle them to death. Take too much, get too reliant on it, and it’s a long slow death. Or, you could be like the small percent of the population who got this thing before the folks at Sucrocorp had managed to figure out the exact composition--”

“The people at Biggerson’s,” Dean interrupts, the pieces starting to fall into place. “They got a prototype of this thing.” 

Kevin nods, looking only slightly annoyed. “It was a test run. According to the notes in Dick Roman’s files, they wanted to see how it would affect the taste.” Kevin swallows hard as his fingernails dig into the leather of the folder. “The taste.” 

“And the people who were going to get hurt?” 

Kevin finally makes eye contact with him. “From the chatter that I managed to pick up, they assumed that there would be lawsuits. A few million paid out, but nothing compared to what they would make off of LV-1THN. It was considered an acceptable loss.” 

Rage bubbles in Dean’s throat. He’d seen the pictures of those people killed by eating at Biggerson’s. They were just people, going about their lives, hadn’t done anything particularly good or bad. Just people, and by the random twist of fate, they were the ones who were punished for Dick Roman’s greed. 

“Of course when Novak got hold of the case, the chatter changed.” Kevin taps at his folder. “I was getting ready to compile all of this and bring it to his office--I figured that he probably had all of this information anyway, but it couldn’t hurt anything right? That was when the police officer showed up at my house.”

Linda Tran, soothed by the presence of a badge and the authoritative nature of the visitor, had let him into the house to wait until Kevin got out of school. Kevin came home to find a Detective sitting in his house and automatically assumed that he was in trouble for hacking. 

“He asked to see all the information that I’d managed to get on the Roman case. Wanted my laptop too.” Kevin shrugged, a hint of self-deprecation in the gesture. “He was the police. What was I supposed to do?”

Dean wants to rage-- _ Call the precinct and check his badge number, ask to speak to his supervisor, tell him to come back with a warrant-- _ but he bites his tongue. Hasn’t he noticed the ultimate power of a badge to ensure compliance? And Kevin Tran was just a kid, eager to do the right thing and doing what he’d been told he could do from elementary school, which was to trust the police. 

“He waited until I had everything together before he pulled the gun out. And at first I was just...I was in shock, you know? Like, that was a gun. In my kitchen. I’d never really seen one in real life before; Mom’s super liberal and doesn’t believe in having them around. So I just sat there for a few seconds. It wasn’t until he pointed it at Mom that I actually realized what was going on.” 

By now, Kevin’s caught up to the part of the story that Dean knows and he can fill in most of the blanks for himself, but he lets Kevin keep talking. It looks like it’s cathartic for the kid as he describes how Edgar led him and his mother out of the house with just a duffel bag between them. Kevin’s hand shakes, but only a little bit, as he describes the drive to the building where Dick Roman was waiting for them, oily smile in place, to figure out how much he knew. 

“He tried to bribe me at first. Told me that he’d write me a recommendation letter to whatever college I wanted into, whatever internships I wanted. Said that there was even a place for me at his company when I graduated. When I told him to go to Hell, he got nastier. Showed me Edgar with a gun pointed at my Mom’s head and told me that as long as I played along nothing bad would happen to her.” 

Small shivers shake Kevin’s body and Dean wants to look away in order to let him preserve some dignity, but he also knows that he has to witness this. That he needs to keep a record of this. 

“So that’s it,” Kevin finishes, with a small, pathetic laugh. “They kept me and mom separate. Phone calls every other day, for five minutes. Just long enough to make sure that I’d keep doing what they wanted. Edgar doesn’t understand tech all that much, so whenever he wanted to use a certain piece of technology, he usually had me set it up.” 

Dean nods, before something Kevin said catches his attention. “He would have you do his tech work? So something like...emails?”

Kevin nods, easily catching onto the threads of Dean’s thoughts. “I would type them up and send them, after rerouting them through different IP addresses. A few friends and I figured out how to bounce them from towers all over the US so that it would be impossible to track.” 

“I’ve got a friend that you’re going to have to show that trick to,” Dean mutters, thinking about how frustrated Charlie had been. There aren’t many tricks that can stymie Charlie for long; no doubt she’d love to add another one to her repertoire. 

“I set up some camera feeds for him too, nothing major,” Kevin adds. He looks at Dean with plaintive eyes. “They had my Mom and I didn’t...I didn’t want…”

“I know,” Dean assures him. Fuck, if someone had gotten their hands on Sam...on Cas...What would Dean do to keep them safe? 

In order to shake his mind loose of those thoughts, Dean asks the question that’s been nipping at the back of his mind. “So if they’ve been keeping you under lock and key, how’d you manage to slip the leash?” 

A small, smug smile tilts across Kevin’s face. “Sometimes, I would hear Edgar talk. He’s got something planned for today; I don’t know what, but it was enough to make him sloppy. He didn’t pay as much attention today as he should have, left the door unlocked. I knew that he was going to be distracted so I’d gathered up all my things that I could. It was easy enough to print out a fake press pass, I figured that was my best way in. I thought that I could slip out during the break, make it up to Novak...” He hugs the folder tightly to his chest. “This whole thing started because I wanted to get this information to Castiel Novak. I figured if I could get to him...That I could figure out a way to save my mom…” 

Kevin’s voice thickens and despite his misgivings, Dean reaches out to grab his shoulder. “Hey. You did good kid, real good.” 

Something releases in Kevin at Dean’s acknowledgement and it almost breaks Dean’s heart to see it. He recognizes the signs of a kid forced to grow up too quickly from looking in the mirror. Kevin might have made it to safety, they might save his mom, and he might make a good life for himself, but he’ll always carry around these scars. 

“Last question,” Dean says, mind coming around to their first encounter. “Why were you so convinced that I was working for Roman?” Something’s bothering him about Kevin’s assumption. Like the rest of this damn assignment, it’s lurking at the back of his mind, content to stay in the shadows and never let Dean get a firm grip on it. 

Kevin blinks up at Dean. Instead of the frankness of before, his eyes are shuttered and suspicious. “Do you...You don’t know?” 

Dean can feel Kevin withdrawing from him. He somehow knows if that happens, then he’ll never get the answers that he wants, that he needs. So he reaches across the table, his fingers snapping closed on Kevin’s wrist. “Know what?” he asks, voice sharp with urgency. “Know what?” he repeats, when Kevin is unforthcoming with the answers. 

“Edgar said...He kept on bragging about how they’d managed to outsmart the cops. That no matter what they did, they’d always figure it out first because they had an inside guy. Someone with access to Novak that no one would ever suspect.” The rise of Kevin’s eyebrows leaves no doubt as to what he means. 

If Kevin had reached across the table and slapped him across the face, Dean couldn’t feel more astonished. Someone on the inside? Someone with access to Novak? “No,” he says, the denial coming easily even as his mind starts to chew at the accusation. “No one would...I know every single one of those cops and none of them would ever--They would  _ never-- _ ” 

“Look, I’m just repeating what he said. He said that there was someone on the payroll who could get access to Novak’s schedule. They even managed to get into his bedroom, put up cameras so that they could have surveillance at his house.” 

Pieces tumble around Dean, faster than he can pick them up. He knows that Benny, Jo, or Garth would never sell out. He trusts them not only with his life, but with Cas’ life as well. Bobby, he trusts with more than that, in a faith that goes down to the bone and blood. He knows that none of them are responsible. 

But Kevin’s words strike a chord of truth in him. Those emails that somehow knew exactly what was happening in Cas’ life, including the shift in their relationship? 

“Cameras,” Dean realizes, with a cold twist of his stomach. Charlie had told him that there was no way that an outsider could know those details because no one had hacked into her feed. Besides, she’d assured him, laughingly because she had no wish to see him like that, she’d never put up cameras in the bedroom. 

She hadn’t. But someone else had. 

Someone who wasn’t a cop but still had access to Cas’ house. Someone whom no one bothered suspecting. 

Dean’s mind shoots to Hannah, but just as quickly, he dismisses that idea. No way in hell that Hannah sells Cas out. He’s seen the way that she looks at him--it’s not romantic, not familial, but somewhere in between. Like she’d follow Castiel in the depths of hell if he only asked her. 

Who else, who else--

Dean’s stomach drops, a hundred feet of free fall as the answer comes to him, easy and simple as though it had been in his head the whole time. 

Ion. 

Ion had access to the house, he picked up Cas’ dry cleaning, his gym clothes, and no one ever thought twice about it. Ion was in Cas’ room, Ion had a reason for being there. Ion had access to Cas’ schedule, would know where Castiel was at every hour of the day, would know the ins and outs of the case. 

The certainty settles into him, the same kind of knowledge that tells him that the sky is blue, that gravity is more than theory and that he’s going to march downstairs and put his fist into Ion’s face and not stop until he hits bone. 

Just one more question. 

“Why...If they’ve known where he was going to be, if it was this easy to get to him, why wait? If they really had a man on the inside, it would have been so easy to strike while our backs were turned. Why wait until they had an audience?”

“Kill him before the trial and Novak becomes a martyr. Someone else picks up the case, takes over the case, and the trial continues. “Kill him during the trial--Kill him on the first day...You force a mistrial. Whole new trial, whole new prosecutor...One that might be willing to settle or just drop the charges altogether. And in the time spent preparing for a new trial, who knows what could happen? Evidence goes missing, witnesses…’forget’...” 

Kevin looks uncomfortable with the scenario that he’s describing but it makes a terrible, awful sense. The fear builds up in Dean’s stomach until it’s all he can think about, all he can taste. 

He needs to get to Cas. 

With everything that he’s learned--Cas is in danger, the worst he’s ever been in, and Dean’s spot is by his side, protecting him. 

“Kevin,” Dean says, switching off the record button and punching in a quick text. “I’m going to need you to stay right here and not move. I’m texting Sergeant Jody Mills right now. She’s been in charge of your case; you can trust her. I’m telling her where you are so she can stop by and escort you to the station. Her badge number is 515, and she’ll tell it to you before she opens the door, all right?” 

He knows that he’s speaking quickly, but there’s too much to do, and his brain can’t wrap itself around the fact that Cas is in trouble and he’s not there to help. 

“Hate to leave you, but I’ve got to go, I’ve got--” 

Dean already has one foot out the door when an ear splitting howl stops him in his track. His heart rate ratchets up to a frequency that he thought was impossible as he listens to the sounds of the fire alarm race through the building. 

“What the hell?” Kevin looks at Dean, the folder clutched in front of his chest like a shield. “What the hell?” 

“It’s a diversion. It’s a way to scatter people, create chaos and panic.” Dean breathes, horror settling into him. “It’s exactly what you do if you’re trying to separate someone from their protection.” 

His fingers work at the fastenings of his vest, clumsy with the need to hurry. He shoves it at Kevin and, when the boy doesn’t react fast enough, shoves Kevin’s arms through the holes. “Put this on,” he says, clipping the sides together. “Go out with the rest of them, use the crowd as protection. Once you’re outside, you make your way to any cop and ask them for Captain Singer. You tell them that Detective Winchester sent you.” 

Dean tugs at the corner of the folder. Kevin’s arms tighten reflexively on it. “You don’t let this out of your hands, all right?” On second thought, he shoves his phone at Kevin as well. “Along with this. That’s a recording of our interview. You play that for Captain Singer.” 

Kevin looks up at him, his eyes wide. “Come on,” Dean says, shouting over the wail of the fire alarm. “Move!” he snaps, when Kevin still remains fixed to the same spot. “Kevin, come on man, you’ve got to do this for me. I can’t get this stuff to Captain Singer, so I need you to do it for me.” 

“You’re throwing me back out to the wolves. You want me to go back out there, risk getting seen, risk getting shot--” 

“You came here today so that you could give that information to Cas, so that he could do some good with it. I’m telling you now, this is how you can do some good.” 

He doesn’t know if his pep talk works. He doesn’t really stick around to find out. He ushers Kevin into the hallway with a firm hand wrapped around his bicep. He doesn’t let go until they run into the line of other press members exiting the building. “Don’t forget,” Dean shouts, the alarm so loud that it feels like his skull is splitting in half, “Find Captain Singer!” 

He gives Kevin a hard shove in the center of his back, just in case the kid is thinking of reconsidering, and watches as he disappears into the steady stream of people heading for the exits. The police vest makes it somewhat easy to spot him, but the kid is short in a crowd of giants, and within several seconds, even Dean can’t easily pick him out. 

He’ll make it to Bobby. He has to. 

With effort, Dean drags his attention away from the crowd and back to the task at hand. If he’s right, and there’s no reason to assume that he’s not, no one is looking for Kevin Tran in that crowd. Castiel Novak is the target. 

He pushes through the crowd, ignoring the shouts and insults that follow him, and makes his way to the landing overlooking the lobby. From that vantage point, he’ll be able to see everything. 

What he sees is a seething mass of humanity, all streaming for the exits. No one looks particularly alarmed, most look irritated, but the fact remains that the courthouse was full and the evacuation procedures have created a bottleneck at the front of the building. Dean scans through the crowd, searching for Cas. Every head of dark hair he sees gives him a jolt, but none of them are right--What color was the suit that Cas was wearing? Would he take his briefcase with him? Would Hannah be with him? 

“Fuck,” Dean curses, realizing that he’s never going to see Cas from here. The gravity of the situation pushes at him--there’s no doubt in his mind that whatever Roman and Edgar have been planning, this is it. This is their move against Cas; this is where they try to kill him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean chants as he makes his way down the back staircase. Only familiarity with the courthouse makes his journey any easier as he bolts down the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

He exits into the lobby and almost immediately gets swept into the tide headed towards the exits. Without the automatic deference that his vest would give him, people’s eyes slide over him, which creates difficulties when he’s trying to make his way through the crowd. Eventually, Dean resorts to throwing elbows at people who get too close to him, which leads to a lot of curses thrown his way, but also helps clear a path faster than anything else. 

Cas, Cas, Cas--the name beats a litany in his brain as he makes his way towards the main courtroom. The last few people are just now trickling out, including Dick Roman, escorted by his lawyer, some slick schmuck named Fergus Crowley, and two baliffs. 

They’re too far away for conversation and the fire alarm makes shouting an exercise in futility. But Roman’s eyes slide over to Dean’s face and Dean can see the instant that Roman recognizes him. 

They’ve never been introduced. Dean was never involved with Roman’s case until he got assigned to Cas’ protection detail. He’s never spoken a word to Dick Roman a day in his life. 

Dick Roman shouldn’t know who Dean Winchester is. 

Unless he has inside information. 

Dean’s cheeks heat as he realizes exactly how much of him Dick Roman has seen. It’s impossible, it can’t be, but he thinks that he sees Roman’s eyes light up in response to the humiliated blush flaring across his face and down his neck.  _ It’s not fair,  _ some tiny, hurt part of Dean protests,  _ that was private, that was just between me and Cas-- _

There’s something predatory in the way that Roman looks at him with flat, dead eyes, like a shark closing in on its prey. Dean’s skin goes cold as Roman smiles, wide and broad, teeth sinking into vulnerable flesh--

Roman’s eyes dart to the side, the slightest tell, and Dean follows where he looks. 

He can just make out the flash of Cas’ suit before it whips around a corner, disappearing into the side hallways of the courthouse. 

Behind Cas, escorting him with a single hand on his shoulder, is Ion. 

“You--You bastard,” Dean breathes, fear turning his tongue wooden. His blood runs cold in his veins and for a moment, it’s all he can do to just remember how to breathe. 

Dick Roman grins at him, piranha teeth gleaming in the light, and he laughs--Cas is about to die and he’s laughing--

Dean takes off at a dead run, sprinting down the hallway where he saw Cas walk down. No protection, no friends--what the hell was Cas thinking, but he can already imagine how easily it would have been accomplished--

The alarm would have taken them all by surprise. Benny wouldn’t have been at the table, he would have been at the back of the room. As people started to file out of the room, he would have been working against the tide. It left plenty of time for Ion to lean in close, whisper to Cas,  _ There’s something off about this; I don’t trust it, follow me-- _ And Cas, because he’s Cas, because he trusts when he shouldn’t and always believes the best from people, would follow, would tell Hannah to tell Detective Lafitte and Fitzgerald that he was slipping out a different way--

Dean’s feet pound down the hallways, but there’s no sign of Cas anywhere. “Cas!” he shouts, breath tearing at his lungs. “Cas!” He waits to hear anything--a corresponding shout, footsteps, anything--but all he can hear is the sound of his own pants echoed back at him. 

Dean comes to a stop, surrounded by innocuous looking doorways. This isn’t helping. It’s not getting him closer to Cas and every second that he wastes is a second closer that Cas comes to--

Think. He has to think. Ion was leading Cas somewhere. Where were they going? What would Ion be looking for? 

The answer strikes Dean a millisecond before his feet start moving. The alleys. The twisting passages behind the courthouse, left over from the city’s history. A place where the worst kind of sins could go unnoticed, for a short while at least. 

He has to get there. He has to make it there before--

That thought doesn’t bear finishing. Dean pushes himself to run faster, to think better--He has to make it, has to--

He bursts out of a door marked ‘Emergency Exit Only’ and into the cool morning air. It scorches his throat as he sprints down the narrow alley. There’s so many of them, and only seconds--

“Cas!” He waits a second and then shouts, using all the excess air in his lungs to bellow, “ _ Cas _ !” 

A second later, and he hears--”Dean?” 

Hope springs in his chest--That’s Cas’ voice, Cas is still alive, Cas is ok, and Dean’s going to save him, Dean is--

A sharp yelp splits the air and Dean’s blood turns to ice in his veins. He’s never heard it before, but the sound of Castiel’s voice is imprinted into his brain, into his bones. 

And someone just made him cry out in pain.

Dean rounds the corner, only to immediately dodge an exceedingly ill-thrown punch. He steps back, clumsier than normal, but graceful enough to dodge another haymaker blow from Ion. 

“You little prick,” Dean snarls, rage turning his vision red. “What did they offer you? Money? A promotion? A new car?” 

Ion sneers as he settles directly into Dean’s way. “All of the above,” he sneers. “Just for a few phone calls...A few cameras set up...No one ever suspected.” His face turns uglier than normal, something dark and covetous sweeping over it. “They never even thought of me. Well, they’ll think of--” 

Ion stumbles backward, eyes wide as his hand flies to his mouth. He spits. It’s mostly blood. Dean’s knuckles are bloody from scraping against Ion’s teeth, but it’s worth it. 

“Where are they?” Dean asks, though it’s fairly obvious. When he parked himself in the middle of the alleyway, Ion couldn’t have indicated their location any better unless he’d outright pointed it out. 

“Fuck you,” Ion says, his lips still managing to sneer, even with his ruined mouth. 

Dean’s fist slams into the side of Ion’s head, and the lawyer goes down like his strings were cut. 

There’s no time. No time, no time--”Cas!” he bellows, his fingers fumbling at his gun belt. His knuckles are swollen and torn, and it’s difficult to undo the clasps while he’s running. “Cas! I’m coming!” 

He rounds yet another corner. As he does, time slows down. Every second takes hours as he takes in the nightmare that’s in front of him. 

Castiel, against the brick wall, hands held up in supplication. Blood trickles down his face from a cut against his hairline. Across from him, a man, olive complexioned, dressed casually except for the gun he points directly at Castiel’s face. 

All those nights at the range where he spent hours teaching Cas to shoot so that he could hit the broad side of a barn--why hadn’t Dean spent any more time teaching him self-defense? Why had he spent all of his time teasing and groping,  _ You need to be able to shoot straight with distractions Cas,  _ he’d said, his mouth hot against Cas’ ear, tongue flicking out to lick at the shell--Why the  _ fuck _ hadn’t he kept Castiel more prepared, why hadn’t he--

He watches the man’s thumb--Edgar, it has to be Edgar, who else would it be, cock the hammer. 

And Cas’ voice, small but steady in the sudden silence of the alley. 

“You don’t have to do this. Whatever Roman’s paying you, it’s not worth the prison sentence that you’re going to get for killing a District Attorney.” 

Dean starts running, but it’s not enough, not enough to drown out Edgar’s laugh, like glass scraping over rocks, “Foolish man, what makes you think that the District Attorney would prosecute me?”

The realization, the horror-- _ He’s not going to make it in time _ \--The blinding terror as his mouth opens and he screams the only thing he can think of, the only thing that matters--”Cas!  _ Cas!”  _

Castiel and Edgar turning, surprise on both their faces, fear on Cas’ as he unconsciously turns towards Dean, and his gun is finally in his hands, but there’s not enough time, not enough time to draw and aim, there’s only time to do what he promised to do, which is to protect Cas--

Edgar’s finger tightens on the trigger just as Dean’s shoulder slams into Cas’ body. 

In the small confines of the alley, the gunshot is deafening. It echoes off the wall and slams back into Dean, and if it weren’t for the agonizing burst of pain from his side, then he would have screamed from it. As it is, he can’t…

Dean hits the ground. 

His vision blacks, just for a second, but it’s long enough that the world no longer makes sense when he opens his eyes. Edgar against the opposite wall, his face momentarily stunned, but he’s regrouping, Dean can see. Cas is in front of him, sprawled out on the ground, the knee of his suit torn. He locks eyes with Dean, and Dean smiles to see--Cas isn’t hurt, Cas is fine--

But Edgar is standing, and Dean can’t breathe, and he doesn't know where his gun is, and Cas, Cas--

“Oh god Dean, oh please, Dean, Dean, no, fuck, please no--” 

Dean would give anything to not hear that torn, ragged note in Cas’ voice, horror in his face, his hands shaking like injured birds as he reaches out for Dean. 

_ It’s fine,  _ Dean wants to say, wants to reassure Cas, because that’s his job, to make sure that Cas is ok,  _ it’s going to be fine, I’ve got you, I’ll take care of this, Cas, I lo-- _

Dean coughs. Something hot and wet spills over his lips. 

Far away, Dean hears the sounds of Cas’ hands scrabbling against the pavement. “No, no, please no, Dean, you can’t, not when I--” 

Footsteps sound on the ground. The metallic click of a hammer being cocked once more. 

“Understand that it’s nothing personal,” Edgar says, and he does sound apologetic. The politest hitman Dean’s ever met. “I’m sorry Mr. Novak. Detective.” 

Hands pull at Dean, tugging him close and Dean would scream if he could, agony ripping through his body, whiting out his vision and if this is dying then he wishes that it would just hurry up and get on with it, but he doesn’t want to die, not while Cas is in danger, not while Cas is there, he wants to see Cas, morning and evening, and listen to Cas bitch about his habits and his eating and watch Cas’ disgruntled frown as his glasses slip down his nose, watch the spread of Cas’ grin as Dean kisses up from his calf to his knee, he wants so  _ much _ and he never realized until just now--

“I’ve got you Dean, I’ve got you,” Cas says, hands smoothing over Dean’s forehead, pulling him close against his body, “It’s going to be alright, you’re going to be fine, you hear me, you’re going to be fine because I love you and you don’t know and you’re going to be fine--” 

“Close your eyes Mr. Novak,” Edgar says, and Dean’s heart freezes because at the end of it all, he failed--bleeding out on the ground and he can’t save Cas--

Cold blossoms along Dean’s side and blood trickles down his side. 

_ Cas,  _ he tries to say, but his mouth isn’t working right,  _ Cas I think I love you-- _

A gunshot splits through the air. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	10. to serve

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Everything is soft and dark. It’s comfortable. No sharp noises, no hurt. He could stay here forever and be perfectly happy to do so. 

It’s the steady beeping that draws him back. It’s persistent and annoying and no matter how much he tries to squirm away, he can’t escape. The beep pulls him out of the dark and into the grey and still further until everything is an awful blinding white. 

Dean opens his eyes. 

It takes a long moment for his pupils to contract. During that time, Dean whines unhappily. He tries to raise his hand to block the light, but his arm is ridiculously heavy, like there are weights attached to his wrists. 

His vision sharpens to reveal impersonal ceiling tiles. He tries to sit up, but finds it impossible to do so. If there were weights attached to his arm, then his whole body is itself a weight. Dean attempts once more, only to collapse backward, into what he realizes are pillows, wheezing with the effort. Half-remembered pain spikes through his torso, somewhere deep inside him. 

“Fuck,” Dean rasps, the word barely escaping through chapped lips and a dry mouth. 

“Dean?” 

Dean rolls his eyes over to the side, squinting to reveal an uncomfortable looking plastic chair and--

“Sam?” He squints again and Sam’s concerned face swims into view. “The hell are you doing here?” 

A smile spreads across Sam’s face, even as he rolls his eyes in exasperation. It doesn’t soothe away the tight lines of tension and stress at the corner of his eyes. It’s an odd expression, and one that only Sam could wear. “Dean, do you know where you are?” 

Dean glances around and takes in the whole of his surroundings. TV mounted to the wall, an IV stand next to his bed, the plastic railings set on either side of his bed, the thin, scratchy blanket, the ugly tiles and nondescript pink walls--

“Hospital?” Dean asks, confusion clouding through him, and then he remembers--

Cas in the alley, pain bursting in his chest, blood on his lips, Cas’ hands pulling him close, Edgar’s voice saying _Close your eyes--_

“Cas!” 

Adrenaline propels Dean upright but Sam’s hands and an agonizing burst of pain stop him from going any further. Groaning, Dean sinks back into the pillows, Sam supporting him until he’s reclining semi-comfortably once more. Sharp little breaths escape him as Dean seizes Sam’s wrist. 

“Cas. Novak. Is he all right?” 

Sam’s forehead wrinkles in concern and some other emotion which Dean can’t decipher in his current state. “I should get the nurse.” 

“Yeah, you really should,” a new voice says from the doorway. 

Dean’s eyes take in the nurse standing there--cute, in a wholesome Miss America type of way. Long, blonde, curly hair tied back at her nape, stethoscope around her neck, and a teasing smile that’s directed...Huh. Right at Sam. 

Well, this just got interesting. 

“Hi Dean. We haven’t been introduced yet. I’m Jessica. Or Nurse Moore if you prefer.” 

“Think I like Jessica more,” Dean says, an automatic reflex more than a concentrated effort. She’s cute, but she’s also looking at Sammy like he’s on the menu and she’s got a coupon. Not to mention that there’s someone else who’s been haunting his dreams for a while. 

“Well then, call me Jess. Good to see you awake and coherent.” Jess focuses all her attention on him and moves with methodical precision. She checks his vitals, listens to his heart, takes his blood pressure, before rolling up the hem of his shirt. Dean ducks his head down and hisses when he sees the long, ugly line of black stitches on his abdomen. 

“Yeah, getting shot will do that to you,” Jess comments. She pushes gently on the surrounding area. “Any pain?”

“Nope, just feels like I got shot,” Dean wheezes. 

“Ok, so some pain, but not enough to make you stop being a smartass.” Despite the fact that she was just pressing on some very tender areas, Dean smiles. He could get to like this nurse, very quickly. 

The soppy heart-eyes that Sam’s sending her way don’t have any bearing on his decision at all. 

“All right, now that you’re awake, I’m going to let the doctors know. They’ll want to run some tests, probably any x-ray to see how you’re healing up.” Jess flips the blanket back up to his chest before she looks at him. “I really am glad to see that you’re awake and doing all right Detective. That was a good thing that you did.” 

_It was nothing,_ comes the automatic protest, but the more truthful one would be _I did it for Cas._

“Thanks,” Dean says, more uncomfortable with her praise then he’d been with her poking and prodding at him. 

“Make sure that he doesn’t do anything to hurt himself,” Jess tells Sam. Dean doesn’t miss the smile she directs his way. He sure as hell doesn’t miss how her fingers ghost over Sam’s shoulder before he leaves the room. 

Sam stares after her for just a second too long before he looks back at Dean. The second he does, his smile fades, probably in response to the shit-eating grin that Dean knows is plastered across his face. 

“So,” Dean drawls, years of brotherly revenge coming due in one perfect moment. “Jess, huh? You guys manage to do some bonding over the past few days? She hold your hand over my unconscious body? Wipe away your man tears?” 

“Shut up,” Sam tells him, suddenly serious. “It’s ok now; they told us yesterday that you were going to be fine and that we were just waiting for you to wake up, but for a while there…” He trails off and swallows hard. 

Dean understands. He saw where the stitches were and has a rudimentary knowledge of the internal organs that are located in that spot. A bullet there...Well, it would be a matter of timing, of skill, and of luck to survive. He’d had to have all three on his side. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, and means it. “I know that it wasn’t a walk in the park.” 

Sam sniffles. His eyes are over bright as he looks at Dean. “Bobby called, said that you’d been shot in the line, and hearing that...It was all my worst nightmares come true. I managed to make it here in an hour and a half. I don’t think that I stopped for red lights on the way. When I arrived, you were in surgery and I just couldn’t help but think...I never got to--”

With effort, Sam cuts himself off. He wipes roughly at his eyes with the heel of his hand and smiles at Dean. It’s brilliantly false, but it has the potential to become a real smile, if coaxed the right way. “Anyway, like I said. You’re going to be fine. They started talking about discharging you when you woke up.” 

“Are you serious?” Dean works himself into a seated position. This time he manages with only a minimum of grunting and pain. “I was just shot!” 

Sam shrugs. “Them’s the breaks apparently.” 

The question crowds at Dean’s tongue and he can ignore it no longer. “And Cas?” He looks at Sam’s face, looking for a tell, for any hint of a lie or obfuscation--”Is Cas all right?” 

“Assuming you're talking about Assistant District Attorney Novak,” Sam says, his tone carefully blank. “Here. Watch for yourself. It’s on every news station.” 

He picks up the remote lying on the table beside Dean and flips the TV on. The picture sharpens into something legible and Dean watches in fascination as the anchor woman's face fills the screen. 

“--strange and triumphant ending for the case of Lawrence vs. Roman, as Roman’s attorney, Fergus Crowley, entered a plea of Guilty for his client. Earlier this week, Roman was on trial for negligent homicide in regards to deaths at the Biggerson’s restaurants, owned by his company Sucrocorp, but in light of new evidence as well as an attempt on Assistant District Attorney Novak and Detective Winchester’s life, along with other charges leveled by one Kevin Tran, charges were expanded to include kidnapping, assault on an officer, assault with a deadly weapon, conspiracy, and attempted murder.” In rapid succession, the station flashes pictures of Dean, then Kevin, then Cas’ face. They’re just stock photos but something hot and uncomfortable twists in Dean to see Cas’ face once more, even in this impersonal way. 

“The prosecution was helped by testimony from an unexpected witness--a man identified only as ‘Edgar’, who was until recently working for Dick Roman. After being wounded in the attempt on Novak and Winchester, Edgar volunteered to turn state’s evidence, in exchange for a lighter sentence.” 

They show a quick clip of Edgar walking to the witness stand, his leg bandaged and splinted. He looks just the same as he does in Dean’s nightmares--impassive face, unrepentant, but Dean doesn’t focus on him because there in the background---Dean’s chest bursts with joy. There in the background is Cas, looking furious, competent, and merciless. 

God, Dean loves him. 

The thought strikes him, like lightning from a clear sky, hard enough that Dean has to bite back a short gasp. Sam doesn't notice, his whole attention taken by the anchorwoman. 

“And in another bizarre twist on an already strange case, Dick Roman was not the only perpetrator implicated in crimes, according to Edgar.” Dean snarls as a picture of Ion fills the screen, along with--”Certain personnel in the District Attorney’s office, including longtime District Attorney himself, Zachariah Adler, were accused of taking bribes from Dick Roman. Both pled No Contest to the charges. Adler has been removed from office, with Assistant District Attorney Pamela Barnes taking over for him in the interim until a special election can be held.” 

The anchor shakes her head, apparently overwhelmed with the oddity of the case. “A satisfying ending to a convoluted case. Sources close to Winchester report that the detective is expected to make a full recovery from his wounds. No word yet on what, if any, reward will be waiting from the Lawrence Police Department in conjunction with his deeds. Let’s hope that it’s what he deserves.” 

Dean’s face fills the screen yet again and Dean squirms uncomfortably. “All right, that’s enough Sam, you can turn it off.” Sam obeys and the screen turns to black, leaving Dean with more questions than he can voice. 

He finally comes up with one. “Cas is ok?” He saw Cas in the courtroom, that steely look, his frown of concentration, but he needs Sam to tell him--

Sam’s face is soft as he answers, “Yeah Dean. Cas is fine. A bit scraped up and he had a nasty cut on his head, but you saved him. Took the bullet meant for him.” 

“How did…” Dean twists the blanket in his fingers. “All I remember is Edgar standing there with the gun.” 

Inexplicably, Sam smiles. “Um, yeah. All those shooting lessons that you’ve been doing with Cas? You’ll have to keep up with them because he’s a terrible shot. He was aiming at Edgar’s chest and hit his leg, but it was enough. He got hold of gun, shot Edgar, and that was time enough for Benny to track you down.” 

“Cas...He shot Edgar?” A surge of pride works its way through Dean. 

“Like I said, hit his leg, but something’s better than nothing.” 

“And...after?” Dean feels selfish for asking--Technically, he and Cas are at quits now. His job is done. The trial is over. Cas is safe. Dean took a bullet for him. By all accounts, his job on the protection detail is over. 

Sam smiles at him, secretive and just a little bit mocking. “You two really are perfect for each other, you know that? Should have seen him in here--all pacing and broody. Wouldn’t even let them bandage his head until someone told him what was happening with you. I came in just in time for them to tell him they couldn’t release your information to anyone who wasn’t family. The legalese that he whipped out--I’m a damn good lawyer and I couldn’t make up half of the bullshit that he did. By the time he got done, I think the poor nurse was ready to just give him the damn hospital if it meant he would stop.” 

“Yeah, sounds like Cas,” Dean mumbles, something absurdly pleased and warm settling in his stomach. 

“He was here until yesterday,” Sam offers. “Once they said that you were going to wake up, he...Well he said that he had trial prep to do, but…” Sam shrugs. 

The warm feeling leeches away. “I guess he had important stuff to do.” 

Stupid to wish that Cas would stay with him. Stupid to wish that he’d seen Cas’ face waiting for him along with Sam’s. Cas doesn’t owe him anything else--Dean had a job to do and he did it, same as Cas did his. By all rights, they’re at quits. 

“The time was never right to ask,” Sam says, more delicately than Dean expects from his brother, “so I didn’t figure out what was between you two. But when the doctors told us that you might not make it, that it was going to be touch and go to see whether you made it through the night--He was torn up Dean. Like…” Sam shakes his head. “He was upset,” Sam finishes lamely. 

Dean nods and swallows back what he was going to say next. What’s more important is remembering the desperate, frantic words that Cas said when he thought that it was the end. When there was nothing else left, when it seemed darkest--

_You’re going to be fine because I love you and you don’t know so you have to be fine--_

A confession made in the heat of the moment rarely counts as a confession. Dean knows as well as any cop--get people riled, get them desperate, and they’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, tell you things that they don’t mean, just so you’ll leave them alone. 

But Cas isn’t most people and he doesn’t say anything unless he means it. 

Dean smiles as he sinks back into his pillows. It’s then that he looks over at Sam, slyly enough that his brother at least has warning of the danger surrounding him. 

“So Sammy,” Dean drawls, long and obnoxious, and awful, just because, “tell me about all Nurse Moore.” 

\---

Apparently you get two days of being in the hospital after you get shot before they kick you out. 

That’s slightly unfair--Dean was unconscious for three, so he gets a total of five days. But, as Jess tells him, once they’ve stabilized his condition and made sure that he’s not going to get infected or suddenly drop dead of bad blood pressure, there’s not much that can be done at a hospital that can’t be done at his house. 

“And it’s actually healthier for you in the long run,” she says, helping him into a wheelchair (Hospital policy, she’d explained, all patients get wheeled out in one, regardless of how _stupid_ it looks and feels). “Do you know how many infections you can pick up from a hospital? Trust me, you’ll be better off at home.” 

“Yeah, but there’s not free pudding at home,” Dean grumbles, waiting for Sam to pull the Impala around (he's lost his legs and his Baby all in the same fifteen minutes, and he's not sure which is worse). Truth be told, he’s really only regretting the loss of the pudding. Other than that detail, his stay in the hospital has been tedious with an occasional side of painful. 

“Stop complaining,” Jess says, with no heat. Sam pulls up to the front of the building, looking awful behind the wheel of the Impala. “Your chariot awaits.”

“Yeah, yeah,” and then because he is an awesome older brother, “Hey look, Sam’s testicles haven’t quite dropped yet, but if you wanted to grow a pair and ask him out, I’m almost positive that he’d say yes.” 

Ok, maybe not the smoothest way that he could have asked a girl out for his brother, but fuck it. Sam was awfully heavy on those brakes. 

Jess laughs, clear and a little mocking. “You need to keep up,” she says, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ve already done that. We’re going out on Friday.” 

Well damn. Dean really hopes Sam doesn’t fuck this up. He could get really used to having Jess around. 

He brings the subject up on the drive home. 

“So, big date on Friday?” He would be meaner, but Sam is still behind the wheel and he doesn’t want his Baby to suffer from his cruelty. 

Sam sputters, but he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. Dean can’t help but ask, “How is that going to work, with you in Topeka and her in Lawrence?” 

Sam is quiet for a long moment before he answers. “You know, most of the reason that I never tried for a job with the District Attorney’s office in Lawrence was because I hated Zachariah Adler. Couldn’t see myself working for him, ever. And now that he’s gone?” Sam shrugs. “No way that Pamela Barnes doesn’t get elected as District Attorney and working with her? I could see myself doing that.” 

Dean swallows down the hope rising in him. “You care about this chick that much? To move back home?” 

Sam gives him a sideways glance. “I care about _you_ that much. I’ve missed you. And the thought that you could be dying in a hospital, while I never got the chance to say goodbye…” With effort, Sam focuses his attention back on the road. “It kind of refocused my priorities. Made me look at what was important.” 

Dean nods. It’s always easiest to see what’s most important to you when it looks like you’re closest to losing it. 

“Hey Sam?” he asks, before he can change his mind. It’s almost evening, the sky darkening around him. Some people would think that this was the perfect time for a jog. 

“Can we make a stop first?” 

\---

The familiar roads welcome him back. Even though it’s been less than a week since he was here, it’s almost like coming home. Dean smiles as he guides Sam down the twisting streets, until they come to a stop in front of a particular house. 

The ugly-ass Continental is parked outside in the driveway. Jo must have restored everything back. Knowing her, she probably gave Cas a free tuneup, just because. 

“Kind of creepy just waiting outside his house,” Sam cautions as Dean gingerly gets out of the car, careful not to pull at his stitches. “Why don’t you go and knock on the front door?” 

“Because he’s not inside.” 

He doesn’t know how he knows that. He just does. The same way that he knows that Sam is going to get a job with the District Attorney’s office, the same way that he knows that one day, a few years from now, he’s going to be practicing his Best Man’s speech for Sam’s wedding, and he’ll get to include a story about how Sam and Jess bonded over his stitches. He’ll have a chance to show off his scar. Chicks dig scars. 

A small figure rounds the corner, coming closer. 

Hopefully there’s someone else who digs scars too. 

“Stay in the car, would you?” Dean asks, as he watches the man jog closer. “I don’t want your ugly moose ass to scare him away.” 

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, but does as he says, rolling up the windows as Dean circles the car to lean against the Impala’s rear bumper. 

It’s a struggle to not move closer, but the stitches in his side warn him against too much movement. Besides, there’s something rewarding in watching Cas come closer and closer to him. It’s like coming home. 

Cas jogs closer towards him, seemingly without a care in the world. His eyes are glazed, looking at a point beyond Dean, but something of the past weeks must have stuck with him. His eyes slide to the unfamiliar car and his steps falter. When he catches sight of Dean, he stops altogether. 

The moment hangs between them. 

Cas pulls out his headphones and takes a few, halting steps forward. “Dean,” he says. Maybe someone else wouldn’t hear anything in Cas’ voice, but Dean would like to think that he knows him pretty well. He can pick up the slight quaver in his voice, the uncertainty. 

Dean grins. That wobble tells him everything he needs to know. “Hi Cas.” He pushes himself off of the bumper in a move that was supposed to look sexy but ends up looking pathetic as he pulls on his stitches. He bends over, hissing from the sharp tug of pain, and almost immediately Cas is next to him, his hands on Dean’s chest, easing him back upright. 

“That was sexier in my head,” Dean admits, but hearing Cas’ soft chuckle makes it all worthwhile. 

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks him. It's great that he cares, but it is also so not what Dean came here to discuss. 

“Like I got shot.” 

He means it as something funny, a nonsensical segue until they can talk about something meaningful, but he’s not prepared for how Cas’ face blanches or how his hands drop away from Dean’s body. 

Right. Cas probably feels just a little bit guilty for what happened. 

“It’s fine,” Dean says, cutting off the apologies before they can start. “Cas, it’s fine. Doctors say that with a few weeks of light duty, I’ll be good as new. Even have a nifty scar to show off at parties.” He waits for a second, then adds, “Apparently your aim needs some practice.” 

Cas looks at him, a hint of the old sharpness and fire in his eyes. “At least I managed to hit him. You were bleeding out in my arms, forgive me if my hands were a little shaky.” 

“Yeah, about that.” Dean blows out a long breath. Now that he’s come to it, he almost doesn’t want to broach the topic, but he’s here anyway. Made his brother drive out all this way just to say hi. Be stupid not to. 

“You said a lot of stuff then.” Cas stiffens and draws in a barely perceptible breath. “Did you mean it?” 

Cas swallows. “You know as well as I do that confessions made under duress are notoriously unreliable.” 

That’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either. 

Dean’s not stupid. He’s done some thinking these past two days, putting the pieces together in every combination until he found one which made sense. He’s a good detective. There are only so many stories which can be told with the evidence provided. 

God, he hopes he’s right. 

“See, I believe you on that,” Dean says. He wraps a cautious hand around Cas’ wrist, thumb pressing against the sweaty skin. The hum of Cas’ pulse beats against his skin. 

No matter what else happens, he did what he set out to do. Cas is still alive. And that’s worth something. It's worth _everything._

“But the thing is, I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.” Dean’s thumb is pressing into Cas’ pulse hard enough he can feel it when it jumps. “Maybe not while I’m bleeding out. Maybe in more controlled circumstances? Maybe over dinner?” He leans in close, taking a deep breath as his nose brushes against the sweaty strands of Cas’ hair. “Maybe while you’re fucking my brains out? Or I’m fucking yours out? I don’t care, I’m not picky.” 

“Yeah?” 

Cas can play it cool all he wants, but he can't hide the breathy tone in his voice or the quick bob of his throat as he gulps down a swallow. 

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, brushing his lips over the sweaty skin at Cas’ temple. He licks his lips and tastes salt. “Plus, I’m feeling kind of left out. I never got to give you mine.” 

“Well, I’m not willing to get shot and almost bleed out just so you can recreate the experience,” Cas says, a little tartly. He leans in closer, tugging at the hem of Dean’s shirt. “But, if you want to give your own confession, I could take it while I’m fucking your brains out.” 

“Easy,” Dean says, half in jest, because he remembers just how athletically Cas fucks. “I’m an injured man.” 

Cas' smile is pure sin. “I guess I’ll have to take it slow then. Lay you back on the pillows. Make sure you’re comfy. I’m ok doing all the work.” 

Damned if his cock doesn’t give a little half stir from Cas’ voice alone. Cas is sex and temptation and all the vices that Dean loves in a package wrapped with righteousness and justice and caring, and Dean _wants_ him, with a fierceness and fervor that takes his breath away. 

But he needs to make sure that they’re both in this together, equally. Partners. 

“Can I take you to dinner?” Dean blurts out. “Just...It might have to wait until the stitches heal up, because I’m not supposed to have anything else other than broth for a few days, but maybe later we can--”

Cas cuts him off with a kiss that Dean could become addicted to. His lips linger, caressing Dean’s, tongue sweeping out to flirt with his. Dean moans into the kiss, his hands coming up to grab at Cas’ arms. This, right here--It feels like a promise. 

It feels like a beginning. 

Dean could lose himself in the feel of Cas’ lips on his, could fall into Cas and never emerge, and that’s exactly what he would love to do, were it not for the sharp report of the Impala’s horn. 

He whips around to glare at Sam, ignoring the stab of pain from his stitches. Sam sticks his head out of the car window, punching at the horn yet again for emphasis. 

“I’m sorry, you know, I held out as long as I could, but you’re making out in the middle of the street and honestly it’s gross, not to mention that my ass is getting sore and I’m hungry and honestly, I think that I could have smacked both of you and neither of you would notice.” 

Dean is going to kill his brother. Sorry Jess, you’ll never get to become a Winchester, because Winchester the Younger is going to be in the ground and Winchester the Elder…

Dean slides his hands down to tangle his fingers with Cas’. After a short, startled second, Cas squeezes his hand. 

Winchester the Elder is already spoken for. 

“Sam?” Cas calls, never taking his eyes from Dean. “Would you like to come in for dinner? I’ve got some lovely broth for you and your brother.” 

This time, when Dean and Cas enter into his house, they do so hand in hand, together. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	11. epilogue

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_epilogue--one year later_ **

Dean wakes alone in a bed that’s still warm. 

He stretches, wincing as his spine and shoulders pop and settle into place, before curling back up, smothering a yawn as he does so. On the weekends, Cas gets his run out of the way early. Sometimes he manages to slip out of bed, complete his run, shower, and slip back into bed, all without Dean ever waking. 

This isn’t one of those mornings. Judging from the position of the sun as it breaks through the curtains, Dean would judge that Cas is almost done with his run, a judgement that proves well-founded as he hears the door open. Dean rolls over onto his stomach, hiding his smile in the tangle of pillows and blankets. 

He can chart Cas’ movements and actions just from his sounds. The clatter of keys on the counter, the soft whoosh of the fridge opening, the dull thumps of shoes hitting the linoleum. The empty clatter of a bottle finding its way into the recycling bin. Dean’s blood quickens as the barely audible sound of Cas’ tread works its way down the hall towards the bedroom. 

The door whispers open, the bottom rasping over the carpet in the merest hint of a sound. Dean can picture Cas’ movements--the soft pad of his feet working their way towards the bed. The shadow that falls over him as Cas stands next to him. 

_ That’s fucking creepy, watching someone sleep _ , Dean would tell him, has told him on numerous occasions, but for all his intelligence, that seems to be a lesson that Cas remains willfully ignorant of. Besides, Dean’s supposed to be asleep, which means he doesn’t get to chastise Cas. 

There might be a flaw in his plan. 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice is the softest whisper as his fingers trail between Dean’s shoulders, down his spine. It’s a struggle not to shift, but Dean manages to hold himself steady. He does clench his hands underneath the blankets, but Cas isn’t Superman. He can’t see that. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Cas continues, and self-control be damned, he can’t stop the tiny shiver that races through him at that. No matter how many times he hears those words come out of Cas’ mouth, he’ll never get used to the raw adoration in Cas’ voice when he says them. 

Dean is the tempest--he slams into the world full force, nothing left behind, fearsome but with his own pockets of peace and yes, even beauty. But Cas--Cas is the ocean, ceaseless and powerful, unyielding and devastating. The sheer depth of him is enough to lay Dean weak most days. 

The bed shifts as Cas crawls onto the mattress, nimbly shifting himself so that he settles over Dean. Even though the blankets and Cas’ clothes, Dean can feel the heat of him. When Cas brushes his lips over the back of Dean’s neck, he can’t stop the short moan that falls from his lips. 

“I know you’re awake,” Cas murmurs, pressing his forehead to Dean’s shoulder. Dean can feel the moisture of his sweat being transferred to his skin and it should be gross. All he can feel is a vague sort of delight. 

“Because you woke me up,” Dean mumbles, refusing to lift his head from the pillows. 

“Liar.” Cas’ voice is warm and affectionate as he kisses across Dean’s shoulders. Dean can’t help but roll his hips into the mattress, appreciating the friction on his increasingly interested cock. “You were already awake.” 

Dean finally lifts his head from the pillows. “Who’s supposed to be the detective here?” He bites his lower lip to stop a needy groan from escaping. 

“You know my job requires a fair level of investigative skills, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular fucking Sher-ah!” Dean hisses as Cas’ teeth dig into the meat of his shoulder. His hips mindlessly rut down into the mattress, the pain sending a spike of pleasure through his body. He looks over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes in his best approximation of irritation. “You know that your sweat is getting all over the sheets, right?” 

“It’s the weekend, we’ll change them.” 

Cas shifts and Dean can feel his interest in the matter. He grins as he catches Cas divesting himself of his shirt. There’s nothing seductive about the movement, unless you want to count the completely unselfconscious hurry, which, as it turns out, is damn sexy. 

He finally rolls over, letting his eyes drink in the sight of Cas’ flushed chest. His hair is wild, eyes wilder, and Dean had been worried that maybe their spark would fade, but if anything else, it’s gotten stronger. There’s no part of Cas that he doesn’t want, again and again, until Cas gets smart and dumps him by the side of the road. 

He stops those thoughts right in their tracks by running his hands up Cas’ thighs. He brushes his thumbs over the soft hairs of his legs, dipping his hands underneath the loose legs of his jogging shorts until he’s almost but not quite, brushing against Cas’ dick. 

“I want you to ride me,” Cas pants, his hand splayed wide over Dean’s chest. 

“Fuck, sounds like a plan to me.” 

They’ve been doing this for a while, for so long that their movements are like a dance. Cas shifts off of him, shedding his shorts as he does. He arranges himself against the headboard and pillows, looking like a sultan, resplendent in his nude glory. His cock curves against his stomach, flushed red and already leaking at the tip. 

Dean can’t stop himself; he ducks down and sucks the head into his mouth, flicking his tongue against the tip. He smiles to hear Cas’ low groan and feel the aborted jerk of his hips. A blurt of precome falls onto his tongue, and he could finish Cas off like this, the weight of him thick and hard in his mouth, Cas’ hands combing through his hair, but that’s not what Cas has asked for. 

Cas asks so little of him that whenever he does, Dean can’t help but comply. 

He’s still loose from last night and just the right kind of sore, his rim a little swollen and puffy as Cas circles slick fingers around it. “Good?” Cas asks, looking up at Dean. At Dean’s swift nod, he easily sinks a finger into the first knuckle. 

Prep goes fast, Dean rocking against Cas’ hand as he leans down and kisses Cas, fingers combing through the mess of his dark hair. Fuck, it’s always so good, so fucking good as he lines himself up, Cas’ hand on his hip helping him sink down. 

Cas kisses at his slack mouth, hands smoothing over Dean’s back as he starts to rock with slow motions. Dean braces himself, one hand on Cas’ shoulder, the other on the headboard as he sets a languorous rhythm. It’s lazy and sweet and everything that Dean could ever want from morning sex, Cas’ sweat tart on his tongue, Cas’ hands running over his body like Cas can’t quite believe he’s real, Cas’ mouth open and panting into his. 

He knows their plans--later they’re going to have dinner with Sam and Jess. It’s a celebration dinner for Sam’s promotion in the Lawrence District Attorney’s office, though Dean could hope for news of an engagement. It’s not that Sam’s stuck in first gear, it’s more that he doesn’t seem able to find the clutch. Not that Dean can talk--he and Cas have been together for a year, living together for six months (Cas’ house was bigger and cozier, and Dean had spent so much time there already that it already felt like home, so why the hell not move in when the lease on his apartment came due?) and neither one of them seems willing or able to put a name to this thing that they’re doing. 

Dean doesn’t have any doubts--eventually, Cas is going to realize that he could do so much better than some idiot who barely passed high school and ditch him to find another genius, but until that day, Dean is going to hold on with everything that he has. 

He cups Cas’ face with both hands, angling his face so that he can shower it with kisses. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs, rocking back against Cas, feeling him slide deeper in him. “God, I love you.” 

Cas whimpers, tensing and coming underneath him. Dean kisses him through it, panting praises into Cas’ slack mouth, even as he works himself against Cas’ softening cock, searching for his own release. He needn’t worry; Cas’ hand closes around his cock and works him in quick movements, pushing him ruthlessly towards release. 

All it takes is a flick of Cas’ thumb against the head of his cock along with the feet of Cas’ teeth tugging at his bottom lip and Dean is coming, splashing their stomach with his release. He thrusts into Cas’ fist, riding out the last waves, before he slumps, his forehead pillowed on Cas’ shoulder. Beneath him, Cas shifts, pulling out, and it should be uncomfortable (it is) but all Dean can feel is the low, satisfied ache of pleasure in his belly. 

“You’re so good to me,” Dean murmurs, kissing away the sweat at Cas’ temple. “So good.” 

“Marry me,” Cas says, his voice low and fucked out, and Dean freezes. 

He rears back, pulse suddenly a frenzied thing in his chest, terror and hope conflicting wildly in him as he looks at Cas’ face. He can tell from the shocked look on Cas’ face, that he never meant to say it. 

“We can forget it,” Dean says, already babbling. Anything to wipe that look off of Cas’ face. The one where Cas is putting the pieces together and realizing that Dean is never going to be what he needs. “It doesn’t mean anything, we can just forget it, like you never said it, come on--” 

He can tell that he’s fighting a losing battle, feels Cas withdrawing from him. He can’t place the expression on his face anymore--there’s still that hint of surprise, but it’s clouded by something else, something darker. Something that looks hurt. 

“You mean that?” His voice is soft, wounded. “You...you don’t think about it?” 

Dean gapes. This was just supposed to be an easy bout of morning sex. He didn’t reckon on having his deepest insecurities exposed, like ripping a scab off a wound. 

“I mean...I kinda always figured…” He shifts, uncomfortably aware of the cold dribble of Cas’ release leaking down his thigh. “Come on Cas. You and I…” 

He doesn’t want to say it. Is Cas really going to make him say it? That he and Cas are two different people, from two different worlds? That he’s managed to steal Cas’ time for this long, but it can’t possibly last forever? 

Cas’ expression is a stormcloud. Every second turns it darker. 

“I love you,” Cas says, his low growl leaving no doubt as to the veracity of his words. Just to make sure that Dean’s attention doesn’t wander, he twists his fingers in Dean’s hair. “Understand? I love you and nothing in this world will convince me otherwise.” He lays a gentle hand on the white scar still twisting its way across Dean’s side. It’s a stark reminder of how close they both came. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And if that’s not something that you want, you should let me know, but if that is something that you want and it’s just your notions of your own worth stopping you…” Cas trails off, looking lost for the first time. 

“Dean, will you marry me?”

Joy bursts in Dean’s chest. Cas says what he means, always. If Cas says that he loves him, if Cas thinks that Dean is worth it…

“I think you’re making a fucking mistake, but sure.” 

Giddy, he kisses Cas until his lips are raw with it. He can’t stop smiling around his kisses, stroking Cas' hair down to his shoulders. His cock gives a half-interested stir, but it’s enough for him that he gets to be here. That he can touch Cas like this. 

That Cas could be his to touch like this, forever. 

“Love you,” Dean pants, pressing his forehead to Cas’. “I love you so much.” 

“Likewise.” Cas strokes over Dean’s face with his knuckles. He looks awestruck. Like the treasure of a lifetime fell into his lap. 

Dean’s still having a difficult time believing that he could be that treasure. 

“Marry me,” he whispers, tasting the words for himself. They’re delicious, ripe, bursting with potential. They taste like sunshine and clear mornings, like the salt tang of the ocean and the urgency of Cas’ kisses. “Marry me, Castiel.” 

“Yes,” Cas answers, kissing him deeply. “Always. Forever.” 

Dean rests his hand against Cas’ chest, just above where his heart beats. That heart is his. It’s his responsibility to see that it keeps beating. Once it was his job. Now it’s his passion. 

To protect and serve. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, here it is! I hope that you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it! 
> 
> Again, the amazing artist behind this piece is [destiel-love-forever](https://destiel-love-forever.tumblr.com/). Thank you for going beyond my wildest dreams and providing the inspiration and cheers that this fic needed. 
> 
> If you want to come find me on tumblr, I'm [dothwrites](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). Come yell at me about all the WIPs that I haven't finished. 
> 
> Till next time. <3 doth


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